


The Night of the Beastly Indulgence

by certaintendencies



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: It's not sex pollen, M/M, more like cuddle pollen, murder pollen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certaintendencies/pseuds/certaintendencies
Summary: Dr. Miguelito Loveless has invented a drug that strips away man's inhibitions, turning them into the base, violent creatures they truly are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies if there's anything amiss within this story. I don't have a beta, and while I've been in love with these fellas since my childhood, I've never actually written them before.

Artemus Gordon was puzzled. He watched absently as Dr Miguelito Loveless and his companion Antionette sang a duet at the piano, their cheerful countenances at odds with the grim-looking man guarding the door. The situation itself wasn’t all that puzzling, but in Artie’s experience, he wasn’t the one this particular duo tended to sing at. That dubious honor was held by his partner, who, as far as Artie could tell, was so far uninvolved in whatever scheme the good doctor had hatched.

The pair reached their final notes, trailing off in pleasant harmony, and Loveless turned to Artie from where he was perched on the top of the piano itself, a beatific smile on his face. 

Artie smiled back with a homoring nod and then dropped the facade without further ado. “What is it you want, Doctor?” 

“Oh, you’re no fun, Mr. Gordon,” Loveless complained, hopping from the piano while Antionette looked on indulgently. She stood up and skirted the long dining table situated in the middle of the room, heading toward the door guarded by the lone gunman in the room. He stepped aside for her without taking his eyes off of Artie, settling in next to the door with his gun in his hand and his arms crossed over his chest.

“Well I _ have _ been drugged and kidnapped and held prisoner,” Artie pointed out, turning his gaze from the guard to Loveless. He shifted on the chair to which he was shackled and jiggled his wrists within their manacles in a pointed little wave. “Tends to dampen the mood a bit.” The chain that connected his manacles was threaded through a thick ring attached to the seat of the heavy wooden chair between his thighs. If he wanted to lift either one of his hands above shoulder height he would have to pull the chair out from beneath himself. The chain clanked as he dropped his hands. 

“Mr West always plays the game, why can’t you?” Loveless demanded with a slap of his palm on the table, peering at him grumpily from beneath a furled brow. 

Artie snorted. “Well it’s not a very fun game, for starters. And if Jim’s your favorite playmate, why haven’t you, ah,” his fingers splayed out, stretched stiffly apart, and then curled into fists as Artie shrugged expressively, “_invited _ him?”

“Oh he’ll be playing, alright,” Loveless answered, “Just not yet.” Loveless giggled and jumped up to sit on the table in front of Artie. “First I have to tell you about my new invention.”

“A new invention,” Artie repeated, smiling tightly and nodding along with Loveless’s enthusiasm. “What fun.” 

“Oh it is, it truly is Mr. Gordon, you see, you’ve already been exposed to it.”

Artie blinked, face twisting with a flinching frown. “Exposed?”

Loveless grinned and leaned forward, speaking through a laugh. “It was mixed in with that delightful blend that knocked you out at the saloon. You should begin to feel the effects any moment now.”

Artie, neck prickling and forehead beading with a sudden sweat, swallowed thickly. “Do tell, Doctor.”

“I first used this on a few of my fellow, er, inhabitants at my last place of, shall we say, involuntary residence. The results were astonishing.” 

“Astonishing,” Artie nodded, wishing he had enough slack in his chain to pull at his collar, which seemed suddenly tight. 

“Very suggestable,” Loveless said, his keen eyes raking over Artie’s face intently. “The merest hint from me or anyone else was enough to set them off. They became animals, Mr Gordon. Absolute animals. Reduced to their basest instincts. No inhibitions, no control. Wild, raw humanity without all the trappings of civilization.”

“Sounds like quite the party,” Artie laughed weakly.

“One man ripped another man’s arm off for touching his oatmeal.” Loveless chuckled to himself and clapped. “He didn’t even _ like _ oatmeal!”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say, Mr. Gordon, I do.” Loveless grinned. “There was no stopping them. It only ended when there was just one man left, and he died a few hours later from blood loss.”

“That’s a shame.”

Antionette chose that moment to return through the door carrying a tray with a carafe of wine and two crystal goblets. 

“Oh thank you, my dear.” Loveless plucked a glass from the tray and held it up, looking at the light from the window through the ornate crystal.

“None for me?” Artie swallowed thickly. 

“You won’t need it,” Antionette said, her tone as dark as the smile on her lips as she poured for herself and the doctor. 

“Ah,” Artie looked down at the table, eyes tracking the grain absently. He shifted his wrists and the links of his chain clinked against the ring in the seat of the chair. 

Loveless took a sip of his wine and gave a satisfied sigh, setting his goblet down with a thunk. “Let’s talk about your partner.” 

Artie’s head jerked up, his heart suddenly thunderously loud in his chest. “What about him?”

“Isn’t he just so _ annoying_?” Loveless burst out, sentence ending in a growl as he banged a fist next to him on the table. 

“Annoying?” Artie asked, confused. His hands came up of their own volition to tug at his collar and he shoved them down with a grunt when they jerked at the end of the chain, clamping his clammy palms between his thighs. 

“Yes,” Loveless hissed before straightening up with an incongruous smile. “Always saving the day, always getting the girl,” he leaned forward and locked eyes with Artemus, the piercing blue stare making the hairs on the back of Artie’s neck stand up. “Always getting the _ credit_,” he enunciated pointedly. “What about your efforts, Mr. Gordon?”

“Hnn?” Artie asked, his brain in a fog, struggling to track the conversation, distracted by a prickly wave of sensation over his skin. He shuddered and swallowed, throat giving a dry click. 

“Your efforts, Mr. Gordon. It’s you who saves the day, more often than not. It’s your invention that proves crucial, your intellect or intuition or talent for subterfuge that proves the final element needed for victory. What does Jim West do?” Loveless asked, voice pitching higher. “Kiss the girl? Brawl with some thugs?”

Artie, whose mind was disjointedly replaying instances of Jim doing exactly those sorts of things, could not disagree. “I gotta tell you,” Artie managed to say, voice thick and somewhat slurred as Loveless blurred before his eyes with each thud of his heart. “He usually does this part, too,” he indicated the chain and the manacles and the room at large, “And honestly-” Artie leaned forward, eyes wide with sincerity. “He can keep it.”

“Oooh!” Loveless bounced, frustrated, and jabbed a finger at Artie. “Don’t you feel like you’ve had enough, Mr Gordon?”

“_Yes,_” Artie breathed emphatically.

“Aren’t you tired, Mr. Gordon, of never getting your fair due?”

“Sure I am,” Artie agreed, feet tensing and flexing in his boots. 

“Wouldn’t you like to leave here, and take it up with your partner?”

“You betcha,” Artie nodded, ignoring the swimming sensation in his head and twisting his wrists, wrapping his fists in the chain connecting him to the chair and gripping it tightly. 

“Well you’re in luck, Mr. Gordon.”

“You sure about that?” Artie asked distractedly, pushing against the floor with his toes and feeling the chair rock back minutely.

“Ha! Yes, Mr. Gordon, yes indeed! You see, in a little while, once the drug has fully taken hold in your system,” Loveless explained gleefully, leaning ever closer in his delight, “I’m going to set you free.”

“How, uh, how little of a while, exactly?” Artie asked, lowering his heels and the two front legs of the chair to the floor slowly. 

“An hour at the most, it seems to be metabolizing slowly with you.” He cocked his head and flicked his eyes over Artie, muttering to himself, “Perhaps due to its being administered with the knockout gas.”

“An hour?” Artie frowned, shaking his tender head. “I’m afraid I can’t stay that long.”

Loveless raised his eyebrows, a wide smile blossoming as he laughed. “No, Mr. Gordon?”

“Mm-mm,” Artie shook his head again, blinking and smiling back at Loveless. There was a quiet beat of time, wherein Artie took a fortifying breath and the grin began to slip from the doctor’s face, before Artie lunged. He grabbed Loveless, gripping him behind the knee and at the lapel and then shoved them both backwards. They toppled over, and Artie threw the little doctor clear behind him before rolling awkwardly and staggering to his feet, gripping the chair by the armrests and holding it up between his chest and the gunman at the door.

He ignored Antionette’s shriek of genuine distress, and the doctor’s howls of rage, ducking behind his makeshift shield and running full tilt at the man by the door. The chair splintered as it was shot, shocks of impact rattling up through the bones of his arms, but Artie didn’t slow, just ran the chair straight into the guard, knocking him into the wall and his gun to the floor. He battered it against the man until he went down and then turned it against the door, shoving his way through and making his frenzied way down the hall that lay behind it, head pounding in time with his heart.

He ran into two more guards before he escaped the hacienda in which he’d been held, and by the time he made his way outside his thick wooden chair had been reduced to one splintered arm and the chunk of the seat that the thick metal ring was bolted to. Once his eyes adjusted to the overly bright, glaring light of the setting sun, he found to his immense relief that Loveless had seen fit to kidnap Artie's horse along with Artie himself.

***

Jim was finishing up a snifter of brandy and just starting to wonder if he should be worried about his partner when he heard the hoofbeats approaching. He set his snifter down and listened for a moment, frowning, and then moved to the door at the back of the car, pulling it open and watching in concern as Artie galloped up to the train and then threw himself haphazardly out of the saddle, stumbling up to Jim, wide-eyed and breathless. 

“Artie, what the hell-”

“Jim!” Artie panted, cheeks a hectic red and eyes wild and glassy. A chain strung between his manacled hands clanked thickly as he grasped at Jim’s forearms, fingers like claws. “Jim you’re in trouble.”

“_I__’m _ in trouble?” Jim asked incredulously, pulling Artie inside the car and scanning the horizon briefly before shoving the door shut behind him. “What happened to you?”

“Loveless-”

“_Loveless_?” Jim asked, herding Artie towards the sofa via the death grip he had on Jim’s arms. 

“He -he drugged me, I’ve gotta -You’ve gotta lock me up, Jim.” 

“What did he do to you?” Jim backed Artie into the sofa and gave him a shove. He sat heavily and hissed with the impact, and Jim pried the fingers away from his sleeves and pushed Artie gently at the shoulders, urging him to lean back. 

“I’m gonna try to kill you, Jim, he- he said that I- that I- Ow! Watch it!”

“You might’ve mentioned you were shot,” Jim said reproachfully, batting Artie’s hands away when they tried to interfere and unbuttoning his brocade vest to reveal the yellow shirt beneath soaked through with blood low on his left side. 

“I’m shot?” Artie asked, craning his neck to look down, seemingly bewildered. 

“What the hell did he give you?” Jim asked, trying as gently as he could to tug Artie’s shirttails out from his trousers. 

“Something new,” Artie said, and then looked up at Jim in a panic once more, grasping his wrists and trying to sit up. “I’m supposed to try to kill you.” 

“You’re liable to kill yourself if you don’t stop wigglin’, Artie,” Jim said irritably, “Now lay down and hold still, would ya?”

“You don’t understand-”

“Artemus,” Jim said, clenching his teeth and catching Artie’s glassy brown gaze, “Do you currently feel any particular urge to kill me?”

  
  
“Ah,” Artie blinked. “No, not- not yet.”

“Well then maybe you should hush up about it until you do, before _ I _ get the urge to kill _ you,_ hmm?”

Artie simply blinked a few more times and then sank back against the arm of the sofa, letting Jim examine his wound. 

“Looks worse than it is,” Jim murmured, gently rolling Artie onto his side to get a better look at the damage. “It’s a deep graze, and it’s not bleeding too heavily, which is a miracle, considering how hard you were riding.” He turned his gaze to Artie’s manacles, the skin rubbed purplish and raw, worse across the jut of his wrist bones. “I still don’t understand how you didn’t feel it.”

“You,” Artie said dazedly, and then centered his gaze on Jim, pulling his focus from whatever middle distance his thoughts were playing in, “Kill _ me._”

Jim frowned. 

“That’s the only way it makes any sense.”

“Nothing about this makes sense.”

“I’m supposed to try to kill you in a jealous, drug-induced, animalistic rage, and you’re supposed to _ actually _ kill _ me _ in self-defence, and Loveless is… Well he’ll probably want front row seats to the spectacle.”

“What have you got to be jealous about?”

“Hmm, accolades and women, from what I could tell.”

“You get plenty of womanly accolades.”

Artie shrugged and winced and frowned down at his side, all in quick succession, and then peered back up at Jim. “So does he, when you get right down to it, but it sure seems to bother him when you wind up kissing one of his lady friends.” He sighed. “Hey, Jim.”

“Yeah?”

“My side hurts.”

Jim grinned. “No kidding.”

“My head hurts, too.”

Jim’s grin fell away and he reached up, carding his fingers through Artie’s sweaty curls, feeling gently at his skull. “You hit it?”

“Nah I just… Everything’s… swimmy.”

“The drug?” Jim asked, turning his hand and holding the back of it to Artie’s feverish forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I suppose.” Artie’s brow wrinkled as Jim pulled his hand away from it. “It’s supposed to strip me of all my hard-won gentility and make me rip your arm out of its socket and beat you to death with it.”

Jim gave a thoughtful head tilt at the imagery.

Artie gazed back innocently. “According to Loveless.”

“Colorful.”

“Mostly, though, I just feel like I need a nap.”

“Maybe you should take one, then. I’m going to telegraph for the sheriff. Maybe a doctor. You really think Loveless is headed this way?”

“Makes sense,” Artie shrugged, lifting an arm and dropping a hand heavily onto Jim’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly as his chain swung against Jim’s chest. “He’s a vindictive little bastard and he already knows you don’t handle killing me well.” Artie paused, looking thoughtful. “Although now that I think about it I may have thrown him across a room. He’s a delicate fellow in some ways, I might have hurt him.” His chain clinked as he shifted and he seemed to notice the manacles on his wrists. “Say, you haven’t got a lockpick I could borrow by any chance?”

Jim stood up, reluctantly shrugging Artie’s hand off his shoulder, and made his way over where his jacket rested over the back of a chair. He pulled his lockpick out from behind the lapel and turned back around, starting violently when he found Artie standing just behind him. Jim froze and swept his gaze over Artie cautiously. “You alright?”

“Yes?” Artie answered, and then blinked and looked down, seemingly confused. “What…”

“Why don’t you sit back down, Artie.” Jim took his partner gingerly by the elbow and guided him back to the sofa, easing him down gently. 

“I don’t remember standing up.” Artie confessed, holding his wrists out for Jim when prompted. “Maybe you shouldn’t unchain me just yet.”

Jim shrugged the comment off and got to work on the manacles, freeing Artie’s right wrist, then working on his left. “If I need to tie you up I’ll use something more comfortable.” The last manacle released and fell with a thud to the floor. “Something you can’t pick your way out of.”

“Unsportsmanlike,” Artie declared, rubbing absently at his wrists. 

“Don’t irritate it,” Jim ordered. “I’m going to get some salve and bandages and the rest of that moonshine we confiscated last time we were in Kentucky.”

“I was saving that,” Artie sounded despondent. He was still swiping at his wrist with the pad of one of his thumbs. 

Jim batted Artie’s hands apart gently and gave him a pointed look. “Stay here and keep an eye out for Loveless.” He stood up and took a couple steps backward. When Artie didn’t follow him with anything more than a look he turned around and headed to the next compartment. “And get your shirt and vest off, you’re getting blood on the sofa.”

He smiled when he heard Artie, still clearly seated on the sofa, grumble something about it being ugly anyway.

***

Artie watched Jim go with an uncomfortably heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pulled his shirt the rest of the way out of his trousers and unbuttoned it sullenly, wincing every time he twisted wrong and his side twinged. 

His head was feeling a little less like it was a precariously-perched vessel full of liquid - that is, he no longer felt like a sudden move might slosh it right off his shoulders altogether, but he was still struggling to focus on certain things. To other things, though, he couldn’t help but pay attention. His ears picked up the sound of Jim in the next room, rummaging through a cupboard, no doubt looking for the moonshine. Artie knew exactly where it was stashed, but he wasn’t going to help Jim waste good drinking alcohol. He humphed as he peeled his shirt gingerly back from his shoulders, trying not to jar his side. 

Jim came back in and set the bundle of supplies he was carrying on the cushioned seat next to Artie. “Start cleanin’ yourself up, would ya? I’m gonna telegraph the sheriff.”

Artie stared unhappily at his jar of moonshine, listening to Jim’s movements behind him as he opened the case containing the telegraph, tapping briefly at the key. “You know, I’m sure I’ve got some alcohol in the lab somewhere.”

“Nah, you used it all when you made that bucket bomb last week.”

“Oh yeah.” Artie frowned once more at the jar, and then lit up with the memory. “Hey that was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Sure it was. Get going Artie,” Jim replied distractedly. There was an answer ticking back.

Artie sighed and wedged one of the rags Jim had brought against his hip before grabbing the jar and twisting the lid off, taking a deep, savoring sniff. 

“No.”

“Ugh!” Artie rolled his eyes and lowered the jar, tipping it just above the gouge in his side. “Yeesh!” The alcohol sloshed out and ran, thin and cold, into the wound, setting it alight with a bright, angry sting. “Smarts,” Artie gave a general kind of protest and dabbed delicately at the wound with another rag, wiping around it to clear the drying blood.

“Stitches?” Jim asked, circling around to the front of the sofa again. 

Artie glanced up at him and then back down. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Good. The town doctor’s on a farmstead 10 miles East of here assisting with childbirth and I was never much one for sewing.” Jim stooped down and inspected the wound, blunt fingers tracing the waistband of his trousers, following the line of the graze. 

Artie watched the top of Jim’s head, brown hair shining dully in the lamplight inches from Artie’s vulnerably bare stomach, and found himself holding his breath. 

It was then that the alarm for the stable car sounded. 

“Oh,” Artie said, feeling at once panicked and foolish. “I never stabled my horse.”

“I don’t think that’s her trying to get in, Artie,” Jim said, turning off the alarm before moving swiftly to a window and peering out.

“No,” Artie agreed easily, pushing himself up and making a move towards the mantle, where he knew a loaded revolver was waiting tucked into a hidden compartment, and then lurching to a stop. Jim looked at him, eyebrows up, and Artie swallowed as his pulse sped. “What if he comes and he makes me- what if he knows how to make me do it, Jim? He said I’m suggestible.”

“Artie pick up your damn weapon.”

“_Jim_,” Artie pleaded, terror at the thought of being used as a weapon against his partner stilling his hands and throwing his thoughts into a confusing, riotous spiral.

Jim stalked away from the window towards Artie, moving into his space and gripping him hard by the upper arm. “Now you listen to me, Artemus. Loveless’s drug clearly isn’t working the way he intended it to, and even if you are more susceptible to manipulation than usual you are still _ you_.” Jim crowded closer, until Artie’s bare back was pressed against the mantle and Jim’s hot breath puffed against Artie’s stunned-slack lips. He was pinned in place by Jim’s steely gaze. “You are not going to kill me. You are the most stubborn, headstrong person I have ever met, and if you are gonna do what someone else tells you to do against your better judgement tonight then it had damn-well better be me. Got it?”

“Got it,” Artemus managed to whisper, once he had swallowed the lump out of his throat. 

“Just focus on me.” Jim’s voice melted from cold steel to warm affirmation, and the grip on Artie’s arm went from just-shy of painful to a gentle assurance. “Listen to me and trust me. I’d tie you up outta the way somewhere Artie, but we don’t have time and I might need you.”

“I’m… I’m pretty focused,” Artie assured him. “And I trust you.”

“Good. I trust you too. Now get your gun and cover the rear.”

“Sure thing.” Artie continued to hold Jim’s gaze, waiting for the other man to move away and prepare for Loveless and his lackeys. But Jim stayed close. Artie found himself swaying forward, a prickling wave of awareness washing over his shoulders and down his back. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up.

“Artie,” Jim whispered, the hand on his arm sliding down to cup his elbow.

“Yeah Jim?”

“Ya gotta let go.”

Artie looked down and found that his fingers were twisted up in the front of Jim’s jacket, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Oh.”

He blinked and shook his head, untangling his fingers and sidling away as a new flush of sensation swept across his overheated skin. He turned and grabbed the gun out of the compartment and checked the cylinder, glancing back to Jim with a quick nod that he hoped was reassuring. 

***

Jim was worried. Not that his partner was going to kill him, but that his partner was going to get _ himself _ killed. There was no room for distraction as far as Loveless was concerned, and Jim was well aware that for some reason the little doctor viewed Artie as the more expendable member of their partnership. 

Jim stepped quickly and quietly over to the hall entrance and risked another glance at Artie, who had sidled up next to the outside door, back to the wall and half in shadow. He would be behind it if it opened, and he had a clear view of the rest of the car, including Jim’s position. Jim watched as Artie took a few deep, steadying breaths, his stomach caving in below his ribcage with each flex of his diaphragm. His side was still bleeding sluggishly, but the set of his jaw was determined, his eyes clear just below the sweaty mess of his dark curls. Jim heard a noise in the hall and shifted his focus, flattening himself against the wall and readying his revolver. 

Jim needn’t have worried. It appeared that loveless had overestimated either his new drug’s effect on Artie, or his henchmen’s effect on Jim. He only sent three men, and at least one of them was still feeling the effects of Artie’s escape, judging by the limp he came in with. 

“Is that it?” Artie asked, genuinely confused as he looked up from checking the pulse of the man he’d brained with the butt of his revolver.

“That can’t be it,” Jim decided, stepping over one of the men and checking the window again. There was no indication of any additional forces that Jim could see. 

“Distraction?” Artie guessed, straightening up and moving to stand next to Jim.

“From what?” Jim asked, giving Artie a puzzled look. Artie returned it and then glanced down at the unconscious men once more. 

“Hey Jim.”

“Yeah?”

“Do they look funny to you?”

Jim considered it, looking at each of the three men in turn. “Well they’re all pretty ugly,” he allowed, nudging the closest with the tip of his boot. “This one’s especially ugly. Why?”

“They’re all…” Artie shook his head and looked back over to Jim with a shrug. “Sweaty?”

“Well so are you,” Jim pointed out, and then paused in thought as he looked back down at the men. “It isn’t very warm out, though.” 

One of the men let out a groan. It was the last man that had entered, the one Jim had choked out for longer than strictly necessary while he waited for another heavy to follow that hadn’t actually come. 

“He shouldn’t be waking up yet,” Jim said, taking a step forward and retrieving the gun the man had come in with from the floor beneath the sofa. 

“No,” Artie agreed, doing the same for the other weapons, unloading one, bullets landing heavily on the rug one by one, before tossing it away and hefting the other in his left hand. 

The groaning man was the first to wake up. 

Jim attempted to reason with him. 

“Hands up and no sudden movements,” he ordered, both his weapons and Artie’s were trained on the man. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan and stood there, swaying, but made no effort to lift his hands. “I said hands up, mister,” Jim tried again, gesturing with a revolver and about to point out how out-gunned the man was, when the man stopped swaying and snapped his head up, eyes narrowing as he focused in on Jim. “Don’t move,” Jim said, muscles tense as the man seemed to shudder and hunker down, like a cat ready to pounce. 

The man moved.

Jim took a step back and readied himself to fire but three quick shots stayed his hand. 

Artie had beaten him to it. 

The man roared and stumbled to the side, missing Jim by inches as he lurched past and landed hard against the wall, bright red blossoming out over the side of his shirt as he sank to the floor. Jim let out a breath and turned to Artie, a thank you on the tip of his tongue, only to find Artie with flat look on his face and both guns still trained in Jim’s direction. Jim felt a pang of concern. “Hey, you wanna point those somewhere else, partner?”

Artie’s gaze seemed to flicker, and he shot Jim an appraising look before he focused once again on something behind him. “Nope.”

Jim heard something behind him, and turned, disbelieving, to find the man struggling up to his feet again, blood on his teeth as he snarled, fingers curling into claws. 

“Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Jim shot first, the second time around, but he was soon joined by Artie as the crazed man gnashed his teeth and walked into the gunfire, steps heavy and plodding and deliberate as he leaned into the flurry of bullets like they were no more than a stiff wind. He finally dropped after Jim put his last bullet between the man’s eyes, feral grimace never leaving his face as he slumped to the floor, a few feet from where Jim had backed up to Artie’s position. 

“Damn,” Jim said after a moment of stark silence, gunshots still ringing in his ears. 

“That was supposed to be me,” Artie said, voice rough but quiet. Jim turned and raised an eyebrow, giving the two smoking barrels of Artie’s guns a look. 

“I’m glad it wasn’t.”

Artie smiled at him. It wasn’t a proper smile, the kind that lit his whole face up, it was much smaller and more tentative, but at this point Jim would take what he could get. He grinned back, taking a step closer, and then the world tilted on its axis as Jim’s legs were pulled out from underneath him. 

***

Artie gasped and dove after Jim, using the butt of a pistol to smash at the hands of the man who yanked and pulled at Jim’s legs. He hollered inarticulately, dropping the guns and scrambling over Jim, punching the snarling man in the mouth before he even thought about what he was doing. 

There was a resounding crack, and the man, the same one Artie had knocked out earlier, reared back in shock, letting go of Jim in the process. His jaw looked wrong, slack and misaligned, but it didn’t stop him from baring his teeth and lunging at Artie. They grappled like madmen, rolling over and off of Jim. The strength in the other man’s hands as he gripped and clawed and swung wildly at Artie was astonishing. Artie took a solid punch to his left side, and the shock of it stole his breath for a moment. A wheezing grunt of pain escaped him as he curled up protectively around his wound and jerked a knee up, crushing something apparently important to his foe as the man howled and slumped away. 

He heard Jim grind out his name and immediately turned to see their third attacker had roused and had his hands clenched, white-knuckled, around Jim’s neck. 

Artie felt a hot flash of rage sweep through him, and he struggled to his feet. He spared a vicious kick for the man next to him, hearing a satisfying crunch as his boot made contact with the man’s temple, and lurched over to Jim. He spent a brief moment attempting to prise the other man’s fingers from around his partner’s throat, but quickly decided on a more comprehensive approach to the problem. He slung his arm around the other man’s neck, wrenching him sharply back and squeezing with a grim determination. He locked eyes with Jim, who was turning an alarming shade of purple as his blunt fingers clawed and ripped at the man’s hands. Artie felt the man attempt to swallow, his adam’s apple giving an aborted heave, the prickle of his unshaven throat scratchy against Artie’s sweat-slick inner elbow. Artie grabbed on to his own wrist and tightened his hold, feeling tendons and bone and soft, vulnerable flesh grind and shift and yield under the force. 

Jim was finally able to tear the man’s fingers off his neck, and he flung them away, reaching up to cup his abused throat. Artie watched him with avid interest, relief flooding him as he watched Jim swallow, as he watched Jim’s chest rise and fall with a deep, gasping breath, body slumped against the back of the sofa. Still Artie clung to the man, until his fingers ceased their clawing at Artie’s forearm, until his arms and legs and neck went limp. Artie dropped him to the floor and stepped over his body to get to Jim. 

He slid his own palm over Jim’s hand, gently moving it in order to get a better view of the red, swelling marks the man had left behind. 

Jim attempted to clear his throat, winced instead, and grabbed onto Artie’s shoulder to pull himself up straight. 

Artie shifted back slightly and steadied Jim, sliding one hand down to his side and using the other to loosen Jim’s tie and collar, feeling him swallow as he did. “You oughtta be more careful,” Artie chided, trying to ignore the tremble in his fingers as he bared Jim’s throat. Jim gave him an unamused glare and Artie yelped as he felt a pinch just above the graze in his side. He ignored it for the time being and patted absently down Jim’s shirtfront and vest. “Anything broken?”

He waited for Jim’s head to shake before giving into the urge to draw him close. 

He crushed Jim to him, arms around his shoulders and his waist, letting out a shuddering breath and laughing self-consciously.

Jim gave him a thumping pat on the back and allowed the hug, one arm slung loose across Artie’s shoulders and his other hand pressing against Artie’s left side, palm slipping slickly in blood and sweat as he put pressure on the wound there. 

“Ow,” Artie said mildly, resting his cheek against the side of Jim’s head and heaving a sigh. 

Jim patted his back again and Artie adjusted his hold, loosening it slightly but not letting go. “Sorry.” He felt Jim shrug against him and sink a little further into the embrace.

It was a few moments more before Artie decided he could probably let go, and another beat after that before he actually did. 

Jim kept a hand shoved against Artie’s side and lifted his eyebrows in a gentle question. Artie shrugged and looked down, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“I really didn’t like his hands on you.”

Jim’s lips twisted and he gave a nod and an eye-roll, conveying eloquently his own dislike of the notion, before leaning over the back of the couch and reaching for something with the hand not gripping at Artie’s side. 

“Oh gosh, really?” Artie complained as Jim lifted the jar of moonshine. 

The tone of Jim’s eyebrows brooked no argument, and Artie was soon braced with his hands against the mantlepiece, jaw clenched tight as Jim disinfected his side and pressed a goodly amount of gauze against it before wrapping a bandage snugly around his middle. 

Artie took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed off of the mantle, standing up straight and grimacing at the left side of his trousers, the top of which was soaked through with blood and alcohol. He looked back at Jim, who was tugging off his bloodied jacket and vest while eyeing the bandage critically. “How’s your throat?” Artie asked, noting that the marks encircling it had only gotten redder and more angry-looking with time. 

Jim gave an abbreviated grunt and felt gingerly at it, looking pained and annoyed. 

“You need tea. Tea with honey,” Artie decided, deliberately looking away from Jim’s bobbing adam’s apple, and the beads of sweat that gathered in the hollow of his throat. “I’ll go fix you up some warm tea.” He headed towards the galley, but was brought up short by Jim’s hand on his arm. 

Jim gestured at Artie’s side and then rather pointedly indicated the sofa, his meaning clear, frustration etched in frown lines on his face. 

“How about this,” Artie was ready to compromise, turning and taking Jim by the elbow in order to guide him, but he stopped when he saw a figure move into the doorway that led to the lab.

A somewhat diminutive figure. 

***

Loveless stepped into the room. He was holding a revolver absently in one hand as he inspected Artie and Jim, eyes bright and darting, gathering information. An unhappy-looking man came through after him. The man was also holding a gun, but he had the foresight to train it in Artie and Jim’s direction. 

“Mr. Gordon,” Loveless gave a pair of smart little bows, one to Artie and one to Jim. “Mr. West. I see you’ve managed to survive my little welcoming party.” His gaze lingered on Artie, and Jim felt an uneasy shiver ripple down his spine. “And each other,” Loveless added, watching with blatant interest as Artie took a small step forward, positioning himself between the doctor and Jim. 

Jim, unthinkingly and without hesitation, took a step that brought him up and to the side, leaving him shoulder-to-shoulder with Artie.

“We’ve had a few years of practice with that second one,” Artie pointed out, and Jim pressed his shoulder into Artie’s, unwilling to say anything through the rough, painful tightness in his throat. 

“And using full sentences, too!” Loveless exclaimed, eyes lit up with scientific glee as he bounced on his toes. “_Fascinating!_”

“Was I not supposed to?” Artie asked, shooting a glance at Jim, who was too busy gazing intently at Loveless to spare a glance back. 

“No one else has at this stage.” Loveless moved farther into the room, giving Jim and Artie a wide berth and going over to inspect one of the bodies that lay slumped on the rug. 

_ “This _ stage?” Artie turned to keep Loveless in his view, and Jim kept himself oriented towards the grumpy-looking man in the corner, listening with half-an-ear. “Any other stages I can look forward to?”

There was a pause, and Jim glanced over to see Loveless ignoring them for a moment, resting his hands atop his walking stick as he leaned down to take a closer look at the man riddled with bullet holes who was slowly leaking onto Jim and Artie’s rug. His gun was tucked into an ornate holster that looked strangely large against the doctor's hip and thigh. He straightened up once he was satisfied and gave a demure smile. “I’m not quite sure, you see - only one other subject lived this long, he was in much worse condition, and you’re not displaying any of the expected behaviors.”

Jim turned back, eyeing the man in the corner, noting his bored expression and the fact that he hadn’t changed position. He turned himself around again, eyeing Loveless over Artie’s shoulder as they continued their conversation. “By expected behaviors you mean,” Artie wagged a hand in a circle, half-heartedly gesturing at the dead men. “Snarling, growling, unprovoked murderous rage, that sort of thing?”

Loveless gave a bubbling laugh and tapped his cane against the floor. “That sort of thing, yes exactly. Your standard human behaviors once the trappings of society have been shed.”

Jim shared a brief, skeptical look with Artie, and Artie questioned the doctor. “Standard?” 

Loveless had moved on and was using his walking stick to prod interestedly at the cheek of the man that had tried to strangle Jim. His head lolled unnaturally on his neck and Artie cleared his throat, a nervous, uncomfortable sound. Jim leaned into him once more, a feeble attempt at comfort, and Artie visibly shook himself before rallying. He seemed to remember something. “You experimented on your fellow inmates,” he asked, continuing when Loveless nodded. “And on these, uh, charming fellows here.” Another nod. “Anyone else?”

“Besides you?” Loveless asked, smiling wickedly. He laughed and hopped up to sit on the desk next to the telegraph, swinging his legs in a grossly carefree manner as he cocked his head.

“Yes.” Artie said, voice flat and clearly out of patience.

“No.”

Jim frowned, and he turned to see Artie blink, stymied for a beat, and then ask with an incredulous tone, “You mean to tell me that you tested this drug on murderers and other violent criminals, and when they acted murderous and violent you just assumed that’s what the drug made people do?”

Loveless’s legs slowly ceased their swinging, and his grin turned to a suspicious frown as he peered at Artie. 

Jim was having a difficult time focusing. His instincts were telling him to focus on the threat of Loveless, but he couldn’t ignore the man in the corner pointing a gun at them. At Artie. Jim shuffled closer to his partner, shooting a dark look at the stranger in the corner and trying to listen to Artie and the Doctor’s conversation. He blinked his eyes a few times and then found himself swaying, catching himself with a hand on Artie’s hip. 

“You alright?” The question seemed to echo in Jim's head. Artie turned to him, concern in his eyes as he gripped Jim’s upper arms and steadied him. 

Jim stared stupidly at Artie, his thoughts fractured and cyclical and utterly unhelpful. He took in the color of Artie’s cheeks, less red than when he’d first showed up panicked and sweating and desperate, but still pink. He took in the flexing grip of Artie’s hands on his arms, the itchy sensation that denoted his awareness of the man standing in the corner, Loveless’s grating chuckle, and the glint of lamplight off of an edge of the crystal decanter sitting where Jim left it after he had poured his brandy earlier. 

He closed his eyes, squeezed at Artie's hips, and then straightened up and levelled a glare at Loveless. He jerked his chin towards the decanter and then gave Artie a meaningful look. 

"Drugged," Artie guessed immediately, one hand sliding up to cup Jim's face. Jim felt a thumb tug his eyelids down one at a time, and then Artie's warm palm moved and the back of his hand was pressed against Jim's forehead. "Headache?" he asked quietly. His hand moved from Jim's forehead to scruff through his hair, which Jim noticed was damp with sweat. He nodded.

"I'm sorry," Artie murmured, letting his hand fall from Jim's hair to cup the back of his neck. Jim leaned into Artie's touch and tried to convey with a look that he was fine, that he could handle it. 

Loveless was chuckling again. Jim noted that he was once again holding his pistol. He used it to gesture between them. "This is all very touching gentlemen, but it won't last. Mr. Gordon here might be sufficiently advanced to have escaped those tendencies which I have noted in my other subjects, but you, Mr. West?"

The doctor paused, no doubt for dramatic effect, and Jim felt Artie's grip on the back of his neck tighten briefly in a reassuring squeeze.

"Why, you run around fighting and snarling and rutting like an animal on a daily basis. You walk around with your perfect body in your perfectly tailored suits, oozing your way through the upper echelons of polite society, when all the while you're a whim, a mere breath away from reverting back to what you really are. A beast." The smile left his eyes, and he looked with a cold disdain at Artie. "And if your genteel partner here thinks that you, too, will be able to rise above your base urges, well. Perhaps his faith in you is misplaced, perhaps it isn't. We shall see."

Jim felt a surge of anger roll up his spine, felt his shoulders bow and curve, tightening as he tensed. 

And then Artie's grip on the back of Jim's neck eased, and his palm smoothed down over Jim's tautly-curved spine and curled into a fist around a handful of Jim's shirt. It pulled the linen tight around Jim's chest, and, along with the steady, solid press of knuckles between Jim's shoulder blades, helped to center him. 

"You know," Artie began, his tone deceptively light, for Jim could feel the tension thrumming through his partner. "The more you drag us into these little escapades of yours, the more you talk at us about our lives and how we live them, the more I'm convinced you don't understand a damn thing about us."

Jim continued to watch Loveless, and consciously relaxed his muscles. He leaned into Artie's fist and counted his breaths, and the beats of his heart, which pounded in sync with the sour throb in his head.

***

"Is that so?" Loveless asked, all levity having seeped from his tone. 

"You don't know James West," Artie declared, infusing his voice with all the certainty he possessed as he leaned towards the doctor. "And it doesn't matter how hard you study him, how often you drag him into your little games, you'll never know him. Your mind isn't capable of it."

"My mind is capable of anything, Mr. Gordon," Loveless said, and where Artie would normally expect a tantrum or a fit, there was only a low, deadly seriousness in his stony face. "It can conceive of anything, solve any puzzle-"

"Then how come you always lose?" Artie cut him off, leaning forward with a grin as Loveless sputtered. He readjusted his grip on the back of Jim's shirt and sent his partner a silent apology. "And how come you don't have your finger on the trigger?"

Loveless had just enough time to widen his eyes before Jim, helped along by a forceful shove from Artie, was hurtling into the corner, and Artie was diving head first at the doctor. 

A gun went off, the sound loud in the confines of the car, but not deafening. The brandy snifter sitting innocuously next to Loveless exploded, and Loveless squawked in indignation as Artie reached desperately at the butt of the gun, jamming his thumb in front of the hammer before Loveless could get a shot off. He grabbed the doctor around the chest with one arm and yanked the gun out of his hand, spinning to put Loveless in between him and the gunman, and both of them between the gunman and Jim, who was shaking his head dazedly in the corner.

"Quit wigglin'!" Artie ground out, adjusting his hold on the squirming man. 

"This is unsupportable!" Loveless cried out, fingers digging into Artie's forearm as he struggled against the hold. "Despicable!" 

Artie snorted and gripped him tighter, aiming the gun at the man in the corner. He looked less bored than he had previously, but no less grumpy, gun trained uneasily in Artie's direction."Do you really want to do this, friend?" Artie asked.

"Barbaric!" Loveless piped up, having stopped clawing at Artie only to beat at him.

"And whose fault is that?" Artie asked, through gritted teeth. Loveless's efforts to escape were ineffectual but painful. 

The man in the corner continued to watch them silently.

"I'm happy to let you go and forget about you, pal," Artie told the man. "No offense, but you're not a terribly large fish, and my net's already full."

Artie saw a flicker in the man's eyes a moment before he felt a warmth press against his back. Loveless stopped his writhing and Artie risked a glance down to see Jim had an arm reached around them, and was holding a revolver under the doctor's chin.

Artie held still, his eyes were watching the man across the car, but his body was focused on the nearness and heat of his partner tucked behind him. Jim's other hand came up and circled Artie's ribs, one blunt finger tracing a shape over Artie's heart. 

It took a moment for Artie to parse out the star Jim was tracing, and by the time he did the sound of horses in the distance was evident.

"Hear that?" Artie asked the man. "That's the sheriff. If you sneak out quietly enough they might not even chase you."

The man's eyes flickered worriedly towards Loveless, who sighed with gusto within Artie's grasp. "Oh go already," the doctor said, flapping a hand irritably. "Just don't expect to get rehired when I inevitably escape."

The man took one last assessing look at Artie and then uncocked his gun, stuffing it its holster and disappearing through the doorway without a word. A strange shiver made its way through him as Artie watched the man go.

***

Jim frowned as he felt Artie shiver, and then frowned harder when Loveless laughed.

Artie let the doctor go, and Jim took a step back after belatedly realizing how close he was crowding his partner. Artie stepped away from Loveless but stuck close to Jim. Jim leaned into him again after that, offering what he could of his overheated body to the cool clamminess of Artie's exposed torso. He kept his borrowed revolver trained on Loveless.

"Cold?" Loveless asked, a malicious glint in his eye. 

"Another stage?" Artie asked. Jim heard a worrying tiredness in his voice, but fought to keep his face still.

"Very probably," Loveless agreed. "The last man, I should say, the only other man to survive to this stage also complained of a pervasive chill, but he died of blood loss very soon after and I was never sure what the true source of his complaint was."

"Well, joke's on you, Doctor; I've lost a fair amount of blood myself." Artie gave a mocking little head-wobble, and Jim suddenly found himself with his arms full as Artie swooned forward. 

Jim widened his stance and caught Artie around his chest with one arm before he could sink to the floor, taking care to keep his weapon trained on Loveless with his other hand.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Artie sing-songed dazedly, waving his pistol in a wide and sloppy welcoming gesture. "'S open." He slumped more heavily into Jim's grasp and Jim grimaced and hefted him up again, trying to get a better hold on him without jostling his side too much.

The sheriff entered, followed by a couple of deputies, and stopped, seeming to take in the tableau. Jim hoisted Artie up and squinted as sweat dripped into his left eye. He shook his pistol loosely in Loveless's direction and managed to scrape out a painful, "Bad guy," through the gravel in his throat.

Artie nodded helpfully and let the doctor's confiscated gun slip from his fingers and land on the floor with a thud. "Whoops."

There was a grudging yet understandable pause before the sheriff nodded to his men. Loveless was taken into custody by a deputy without incident, and Jim managed to help Artie sink to the floor, leaning back against the sofa with his partner between his legs. He leaned Artie back against his own chest and scuffed his hands up and down Artie's arms, attempting to rub some warmth back into him.

"S'nice," Artie said softly. His head lolled back to land on Jim's shoulder, and Jim watched worriedly as Artie's eyes swept lazily across the ceiling as though tracking something moving.

Jim glanced over as Loveless was escorted from the train, peering back at Artie over his shoulder as he went, ever-observant of his experiments. 

"Watch him," Jim instructed the lawmen, wincing at his own ruined voice and nodding towards Loveless.

Artie let his head fall sideways, and Jim could feel the flutter of eyelashes against his neck. "Gotta sore throat," Artie pointed out helpfully, his voice a low, sleepy murmur. 

"What's wrong with him?" The sheriff asked, crouching down nearby to inspect one of the dead men on the floor. 

"Drugged," Jim ground out. He continued to rub at Artie's frigid arms and indicated the fallen men with his chin when the sheriff looked up. "All of us."

"All of-" the sheriff glanced around at the dead men and then back to Jim and Artie, a thought clearly occurring to him. "You two gonna wind up like, uh, these fellas?"

"Well I sure hope not," Artie grumbled, lethargically indignant. Jim had a feeling he was glaring at the sheriff with one eye, as the other was still busy leaving fluttery, tingling sensations against Jim's neck. He continued to rub at Artie's arms, though they didn't seem to be getting any warmer.

The sheriff eyed Artie for a long moment before letting out a sigh through his nose that was big enough to ruffle his mustache. He turned his gaze to Jim. "You need me to take him to the Doc?"

The notion seemed to wake Artie up slightly. Jim was somewhat glad of the distraction, since his gut reaction to the sheriff's question was a quickly stifled growl. He grasped Artie's arms and helped steady him as he sat forward. Artie stabbed at his own chest with a disgruntled finger. "Take-? Me? I live here, pal." He switched to poking at the carpet and leaned forward. "Kidnapping a Federal agent is illegal. You'd have to arrest yourself. Jim! Ow! Jim!" He twisted quickly, winced, and then grabbed and tugged at the front of Jim's shirt, gesturing at the sheriff. "Arrest him. He's trying to kidnap me!"

Jim couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't hurt his throat like hell, so he settled for a reassuring smile and a pat on Artie's head. Artie seemed mollified, or at least distracted. He grinned back at Jim and didn't object when Jim slid out from behind him and crouched by his side. Holding out a hand, Jim waited for Artie to grab it before standing and hauling Artie up to his feet. 

"Hi," Artie said once they were eye-to-eye. His eyes and his voice were soft and sleepy, and Jim felt a strange pang in his chest. 

Artie swayed and began to sink once more. 

Jim caught him around the shoulders and bent to scoop his legs up, adjusting him with as gentle a bounce as he could. Artie brought his arms around Jim's neck and looked around the car with wide eyes, blinking at the sheriff. Fine shudders wracked Artie's body, running through him like waves. Jim tightened his grip and exhaled slowly through his nose. He began to walk.

"Where we goin'?" Artie inquired, craning his neck to look down as Jim stepped over a body.

"Bed," Jim replied, headed around the sofa towards the doorway.

"Need any help?" the sheriff asked from behind them.

Jim shrugged off the question like a horse with a worrisome fly. "No."

***

Artie sighed as he was settled into the warmth of his soft mattress. He reluctantly let go of his partner's neck and watched as Jim knelt to remove Artie's boots. 

Jim tugged off his boots, covered him with a blanket, and then knelt over him, eyes searching Artie's face for something before meeting his gaze. Artie reached up and poked at the crease his frown made between his eyebrows. "Don't do that so much," he advised sagely, tucking his hand back under the blanket where it could work on getting warm. "Mean lookin'."

Jim gave him an unimpressed sort of look and then glanced back at the doorway. 

"You've gotta go," Artie translated for him.

Jim nodded.

Artie blinked heavily and heaved a great sigh. He settled into his pillow, left one eye cracked open, and concluded with certainty, "But you'll be back." 

Jim gave another nod and quirked a smile. Artie gave a satisfied smile right back to him and let his other eye fall shut. Boy, was he tired.

He felt a fleeting pressure against his chest, right over his heart, and then Jim was gone.

Artie slept for a little while. 

He woke to the bed jostling, half-rolling over in confusion before a familiar arm wrapped itself around his ribs and Jim slid under the covers. Knees tucked themselves behind his, and hot, shallow breaths began to puff distractingly against the back of his neck. Artie patted at the back of Jim's hand where it splayed across his abdomen, fingers rubbing absently at the bandage there. "Relax," Artie suggested, sniffing and smacking his lips contentedly. "We're fine now." He dug his ear more firmly into the pillow. 

Jim's chest and belly swelled against Artie's back, inflating with a deep, purposeful breath. Jim sighed out slow and leaned in, snugging his whole body up against Artie's. Artie patted his hand once more, and slept.

The next time he roused it was to the bunk shaking. 

Jim was trembling against him, limbs stiff and muscles tight with a brittle tension that set off an unfamiliar worry in Artie's chest. "Jim," Artie whispered, rolling over with some difficulty. He ignored the biting sting in his side and propped himself up on an elbow, pushing his other hand through Jim's cold, damp hair. "Hey, c'mon. You're alright." Jim didn't quite wake up, but he turned his face, pressing his cheek into Artie's palm.

Artie's wounded side throbbed at him.

"Alright, c'mere." Artie wrapped his arm around Jim's shoulders and hooked his ankle across Jim's legs, heaving him up and then over his own body. He laid Jim down gently and unbunched the blanket, covering Jim up to his neck before tugging him into a close, full-bodied hug. Stroking his palm across Jim's shivering back, Artie hid his lips in Jim's hair and closed his eyes. Eventually Jim's shaking lessened, and his breathing steadied out into slow, soft snores. Artie kept up the smooth, rhythmic stroke of his hand until sleep took him once more.

Artie woke again to bright, cheerful sunlight streaming in through his window. It was awful.

"Nnngh," Artie groaned, squinting his eyes and trying to roll over. His progress was impeded by his partner, who was lying next to him and grimacing, eyes scrunched shut. 

"Quit fussin'" Jim ordered, voice deep and jagged, caught up on barbs on its way out of his throat. He slung an arm across Artie's chest and held him down, burying his face in Artie's neck. 

Artie quit fussing. He tugged the blanket up over his eyes and tried to ignore the squirming, hungry feeling in the pit of his stomach. He fell back asleep to the sound of Jim's quiet snores, the feel of Jim's damp breath under his ear, and Jim's solid arm like a bar across his heart.

The last time Artie woke up that day, it was to a distant but insistent banging on the door in the parlor. 

"Mmm," Artie protested the noise, working his elbow up to jab Jim in the ribs. "Go see who it is."

Jim grunted and threw back the blanket, giving Artie a gentler than usual shove. "You go," he said in his gravelly voice. "'M not decent."

Artie blearily squinted downward to see that Jim was in fact not decent. Blinking rapidly, Artie sniffed and cleared his throat and slid his clothed leg delicately out from between Jim's naked ones. 

The pounding at the door resumed. 

"Alright alright, I'm comin'," Artie grumbled, rolling stiffly out of bed and clamping a hand to his wounded side. He pressed down firmly, trying to alleviate some of the throbbing, before giving up and grabbing a shirt on his way out of the room, the pounding at the door driving him onward.

Shrugging the shirt on over his shoulders and bandaged midsection, Artie yanked the door open to reveal the sheriff. 

"Oh, hello." Artie said, remembering vague unpleasant associations with the man but unsure of why he felt so. He stepped back after a moment of hesitation, gesturing the man inside. "What can I do for you?" He had a horrible thought that surfaced over the ache in his head as he closed the door. "Don't tell me Loveless has escaped already?"

"No, no." The sheriff took his hat off and curled the edges nervously in his hands. "He has been talking, though. A lot."

"He has a habit of doing that," Artie agreed. He began to do up his shirt buttons with one hand, gesturing at a chair for the sheriff to sit after glancing briefly at the blood-stained sofa. He attempted to clear his throat but mostly just clicked unpleasantly and.

The sheriff declined to sit, glancing around the car and not meeting Artie's eyes. "To be honest I mostly came because uh… Well, apparently the drug's effects aren't fully known, including how long it stays in the system."

"We'll, I'm a bit hungover, my mouth is the driest it's ever been, and I'm still shot in the side, but I think I'll live."

"Good, good." The sheriff glanced quickly at Artie and then away. "And West?"

"Ah," Artie nodded in understanding and took a step towards the bedroom. "Jim!" he hollered, trying to ignore the pounding it set off in his head. He rubbed at his forehead and gave the sheriff a shrug and a smile when he noticed he was being observed. There was a thump from the bedroom and the faint suggestion of a groan. Artie blinked and cocked an ear toward the hall as he called out again, "Jim, the sheriff wants to know if I've killed you in the night!"

There came a series of muffled thumps, an indistinct swear, and then Jim, shoving open the door and slumping grumpily against the edge of the doorway. He was wearing nothing but a rumpled sheet, which he held secured around his waist with one fist. He squinted unhappily at Artie. "Wish you had," he said in a hoarse whisper. The purplish marks around his neck were vivid in the sunlight streaming through the parlor windows.

"Killed you?" Artie asked, stepping closer to inspect the marks, and then smiling at Jim's grumpy grimace. "But then who would entertain the sheriff while I go make us some coffee?"

"Coffee?" Jim repeated hopefully, a hint of desperation in the rasp of a word.

Artie patted him on the shoulder and steered him towards where the sheriff was loitering somewhat sheepishly by the mantle. "Coffee," he confirmed, and left Jim to deal with their visiting lawman while he saw to much-needed refreshments.

***

Jim was sitting on a chair, legs shifting restlessly beneath the bunched up sheet, listening distractedly to the sheriff's updates on the Loveless situation. He interjected occasionally with security-related questions formed in as few syllables as possible, and tried not to let his gaze wander to the wide, rust-colored stain on the rug. 

When Artie returned he looked more comfortable. He had changed his pants, tucked his shirt in, and combed his hair. He was also carrying a canteen, which he tossed to Jim. 

"Coffee's brewing. You need to hydrate." 

Jim caught the canteen and took a swig, watching Artie watch him. The water was cool and fresh, and Jim could feel it sooth its way down his wrecked throat and settle sweetly in his stomach. He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, before meeting Artie's gaze and smiling in thanks.

Artie blinked a couple times and then swept his gaze across Jim's attire, such as it was, with a meaningful twitch of his eyebrows. 

Jim's smile turned into a grin. "I'll change." His throat still hurt, and his voice was still deeper and rougher than usual, but the dry, rasping burn from earlier was fading.

"Might be a good idea," Artie agreed.

Jim stood and took another deep swig before pressing the canteen into Artie's chest. Artie grabbed it reflexively, fingers tangling briefly with Jim's, and Jim left it with him. "Hydrate," he instructed. Artie rolled his eyes and Jim hitched his sheet up a little higher, nodding at Artie and the sheriff before heading back to find some clothes to wear.

He tipped some water into the basin once he reached the room and splashed it over his face. The sheet pooled around his ankles as he scrubbed briskly over his face and through his hair, combing it back from his face and taming some of the fluff. He pulled on his drawers and a pair of pants, along with a relatively loosely fitting shirt. 

Forgoing suspenders and a jacket, Jim buttoned his shirt up only about three quarters of the way in deference to the angry looking purple marks that decorated his throat. He inspected the marks in the looking glass, fingertips hovering over the raised lines. He remembered the feeling of the unnaturally strong hands gripping him tight, and then Artie's presence. His strangely liquid brown eyes as he pulled the man off Jim, as Jim sucked in his first gasping, painful breath. The hug that came after. 

He shook his head and met his own eyes in the glass. Behind him in the reflection lay Artie's bunk, rumpled and slept in, opposite Jim's neatly made mattress. After a thoughtful pause, Jim bent over and grabbed the sheet up off the floor, balling it up and tossing it at the mess of covers on Artie's bed. They could use Jim's tonight. Sharing wasn't so bad.

The sheriff was declining Artie's offer of coffee when Jim arrived back in the parlor. 

"No thank you. I'd best get back, double check our security, keep an eye out for uh-"

"Voltaire," Artie supplied, handing the sheriff his hat from off the table. 

"Seven feet tall, you say?" The sheriff asked, a finger and thumb stroking thoughtfully out from the center of his mustache.

"He's hard to miss," Artie assured him, ushering him toward the door with a hand hovering at his back. "But I wouldn't discount the lovely Antoinette, either." He pulled the door open and the sheriff stepped through it but turned back.

"I'll get on the wire if there's trouble. You two do the same, you hear?"

"Sure thing." Artie nodded and tipped an imaginary hat as he swung the door shut. He stood there for a moment and then turned to Jim. "You know, I'm not really sure why I don't like him, but I don't like him."

"Mustache," Jim told him, moving to the table and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"His mustache?" Artie asked, coming over and holding out a cup of his own for Jim to fill. Jim poured, eyeing the purpled strip of abraded skin peeking out from under Artie's undone cuff.

"Looks fake," Jim elaborated over the rim of his cup before taking a tentative sip. He closed his eyes and let the rich smelling steam fill his senses as he savored the taste. Artie made good coffee.

"It's not fake," Artie pointed out, voice a little dreamy. Jim looked over to Artie having his own experience with the coffee.

"_Looks _ fake," Jim said again, gesturing at Artie with his cup. "Offends you."

"You think?"

"Mmm."

They spent much longer than usual over their coffee, taking in the state of the parlor and sipping more slowly than necessary. Neither one of them were in a hurry to begin the process of cleaning up.

Eventually, the coffee cooled. Shortly after that, they drank the last of it and stood with matching sighs.

Artie left to the stable car to apologize to his horse and double check the rush job Jim had done the night before. Jim began to rearrange the furniture of the parlor so he could move the rug and the amorphous, disquieting stain it now possessed.

He was sweeping up stray shards of his exploded snifter when hed heard the approach of a horse. He twitched the curtain back and saw a lady rider approaching with something bundled up behind her on the saddle.

Artie chose that moment to return, having apparently been in the galley. He was wiping his hands off on a small towel, which he threw over his left shoulder to rest there. "Soup for supper."

"Company," Jim said, nodding toward the window.

Artie sighed softly, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. "We're awfully popular lately. I'm not sure I like it."

Jim was pretty sure he didn't.

He swept up all the shards and watched Artie hastily move throw pillows around on the sofa, attempting an artful arrangement that still covered up his blood stains from the night before. He gave up after a moment, nose wrinkled in disappointment. Jim snorted and glanced at the rug, rolled up and propped in the corner.

There was a knock at the door.

Jim propped the broom up next to the rug and raised his eyebrows at Artie before pulling the door open. 

"Good evening." The woman was dressed smartly, with shadows under her eyes that Jim could sympathize with. "I was told someone here may be in need of my services." 

Jim noticed the black bag held by her side and relaxed slightly. "Doctor," he intoned, stepping back and gesturing her in. 

"Doctor!" Artie exclaimed, clearly excited by the prospect of a lady physician. Jim watched him closely and saw the moment when Artie realized he was the one that needed doctoring.

Jim smiled at Artie's wry look and escorted the doctor farther in. He sent at nod in Artie's direction and helped the doctor remove her coat. "Shot."

"Grazed," Artie corrected. 

The doctor stopped Jim as he went to hang her coat, parting his collar and peering at the bruising.

"_He _ was strangled," Artie pointed out with more prejudice than Jim felt was necessary.

"Wrists," Jim shot back, looking at the doctor and tilting his head toward Artie. "Manacles," he said meaningfully.

"Alright." The doctor gave them both an irritated look and clasped her hands together. "I'll look at open wounds first, shall I?"

Jim gave Artie a smug look and then went to fetch the materials the doctor requested. 

***

Artie wound up shirtless with his right thigh hitched up onto the dining table, leaning back and braced on his palms as the doctor sat off to his side. She unwound his bandage and then soaked the gauze to make it easier to remove. Jim watched interestedly from over her shoulder as she peeled the covering back. It stuck a bit despite the soaking, and Artie winced as she tugged it free. She dabbed at the fresh blood and leaned close with a critical eye. "It doesn't look too bad. I don't think I'll stitch it. I don't like the bruising surrounding it." She looked up at Artie, and he was reminded somewhat uncomfortably of a particularly strict schoolmistress from his youth. "You cleaned it thoroughly?"

Artie nodded, eyes wide. "Yes ma'am."

"Good. Keep it clean." She turned and rummaged through her bag and came up with a vaguely square-shaped tin with a round opening in the top. She set it with a clunk on the table. "Petroleum jelly," she explained. "Soap and water, alcohol, and then cover it with this. It'll prevent the gauze from sticking and promote healing. Reduces scarring as well."

Artie figured it was a little late to worry about scarring where he was concerned, but he didn't feel like saying that to her.

She supervised while Jim did the dressing, and Artie held his breath while Jim dabbed delicately at the wound. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and Artie got so caught up in the seriousness of Jim's expression that it took him a moment to realize he was done. 

Artie pushed off from the table and held his arms up obediently, allowing Jim to wrap him once more in a bandage to secure the dressing.

She had him smear the stuff around his wrists as well, and wrapped them up, declaring them the greater infection risk.

"Clean and change them no more than once a day if you can help it, unless they've been soiled." She gave him a look that expressed her lack of faith in his abilities regarding care and cleanliness quite clearly, and then continued. "No less than every other day. No riding unless absolutely necessary for the time being."

She prescribed warm tea with honey for Jim, and told him he could ice it if he was worried about swelling, but pronounced him unlikely to keel over immediately.

They saw her off without fanfare and Artie returned to the galley and checked on his soup. He found half a loaf of crusty bread and a California white he'd been wanting to try. Jim had set the table, and was lighting candles when Artie brought out the last of supper, including a small pot of tea which he set beside Jim's place.

"Candles," Artie observed, smiling slightly. "Nice touch. Atmospheric."

Jim waved his match out and gave Artie a warm but indecipherable look. He tugged out Artie's chair, as well, before walking around to take his own seat. 

Supper was a simple sort of quiet. Jim made appreciative noises but didn't talk much, and Artie spent the majority of the meal watching Jim. He was caught out in his observation quite a few times, but Jim only gave him an easy smile when their gazes caught, and went back to eating.

"Delicious," Jim declared, once he'd placed his napkin on the table.

"How's your throat?" Artie asked.

"Better."

"Good."

They lapsed into silence once more. Artie finished off his wine and set his glass down, fingers playing at the flared base where it met the tablecloth. Jim was watching him, that same easy smile playing at the corner of his mouth, eyes hooded and glinting in the candlelight.

The scrutiny made Artie a pleasant sort of apprehensive, and he couldn't think of anything to say that might not change the atmosphere, so he stayed quiet and let Jim look. It was only fair, after all, given his observation during dinner.

Jim spent another few moments regarding him, and then straightened up in his chair, casting a look about the parlor. Artie followed his gaze to the rolled up rug in the corner.

"We should see if there are any suitable rugs in town before we move on."

Jim nodded thoughtfully.

"And sofas."

"Upholsterers." Jim countered.

Artie grimaced, shaking his head. "New upholstery won't change my memory. I'll know what's been there. It's a bloody mess."

"Your blood," Jim said with a smile. "I don't mind _ your _ blood."

Artie barked out a laugh. "_I _ mind my blood! 'Specially when it's somewhere it's not supposed to be. Like all over the sofa."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." Artie insisted, happy to argue. He stood up somewhat stiffly and reached for Jim's bowl, ignoring the twinge in his side.

Jim stood as well, helping gather dishes and following Artie to the galley. They washed and dried together, debating the benefits of new upholstery versus new furniture, and the general idea of good blood as opposed to bad.

"All blood is bad," Artie insisted, handing a pot to Jim to put up. 

"Yours isn't," Jim said easily, bending low to stow the pot in a cupboard.

Artie huffed and decided to take a different approach. "When I have occasion to see it, it's a bad thing."

Jim straightened up and looked at Artie, that odd secret smile quirking his lips yet again. He took a few deep, even breaths and continued to watch Artie. He cocked his head and then lifted a hand, reaching out. 

Artie held his breath, body going stock-still as Jim's fingers traced delicately over Artie's lower lip. A wave of prickling heat rushed over him, and he swayed when Jim dropped his hand, his whole body instinctively following the touch.

Jim's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I can see it."

Artie, who was somewhat preoccupied by Jim's deepening dimple, was slow to follow. "What?"

With a rough, short laugh, Jim bounced on the balls of his feet and patted Artie on the cheek. "Blood. Your blood."

Realization dawned, and Artie felt himself blush even harder. He sputtered a bit, and then found himself laughing and shaking his head, cheeks still noticeably hot. "Not what I meant and you know it."

Jim merely grinned and nudged his shoulder into Artie's as they returned to parlor.

Artie sighed as he looked around the car. "I know there are quite a few reports to be made regarding our recent encounter, but…"

"I'm tired," Jim said matter-of-factly. 

"Thank God. Me too."

Jim went off to ready himself for bed, and Artie spent a few minutes puttering, unwilling to watch Jim disrobe just yet, not with the blood still hot in his cheeks. He was working with less of it than usual, he couldn't afford to rearrange it so carelessly. 

He blew out the candles on the dining table and shook his head fondly when he straightened the pillows on the sofa. Turning the lamps off, Artie made his way unhurriedly back to the room.

Jim wasn't in bed yet, but he was still wearing his drawers at least. He sat on the edge of his bunk, fiddling with the mechanism for the knife in the toe of his boots. 

Artie turned away from him and began to work on the buttons of his shirt. He grimaced at the mess on his bed, thinking back to the ease with which Jim had slid under the covers, along with his own simple acceptance of the arrangement the night before. He'd gotten as far as shucking his pants off, bending awkwardly to pick them up off the floor, when Jim set his boot down with a sigh, apparently satisfied with his fiddling. Artie folded his pants absently, watching Jim draw back the covers and slide under them. 

Jim met his gaze and kept it as he slid over farther than usual, until his back was snug to the wall. He lifted the edge of the blanket with a smile.

Artie blinked.

"Come to bed."

Artie drew in a breath, found he had nothing to say with it, and decided to listen to his partner.

He put the lamps out and shuffled over to the edge of Jim's bed, turning and sitting with a pained grunt.

"Stiff?" came Jim's voice in the dark.

"Old," Artie replied, frowning at his body's audacity. "When did I get so old?"

"Venerable," Jim suggested, the grin evident in his tone.

Artie snorted and rocked to the side while bringing his legs up. His abdominal muscles trembled as he attempted to straighten himself out once more without jarring or stretching his aching side. "Enfeebled," he managed, once he was lying down fully.

He felt Jim scoot closer. The blanket settled down around Artie, and with it the warm weight of Jim's arm, wrapping proprietarily around Artie's torso. "Enduring," Jim said, and the grin was still in his voice, but Artie could hear something else in it, too. Something softer. 

Artie blinked into the darkness, settling his arm over Jim's and wondering just what in hell they were doing. "I endure _ you,_ that's for sure."

"Mm," Jim replied eloquently, nuzzling into the hair at the nape of Artie's neck. "Good."

Artie fell asleep counting the swells of Jim's deep, even breaths.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Artemus Gordon was puzzled. He tapped a finger against his lower lip thoughtfully and watched as Jim wrestled their new chaise through the parlor car all by himself. Jim paused for a moment, stretching his back out and glancing at Artie. His face lit up when their eyes met. Artie felt an answering smile stretch across his own face and nodded at their new furniture item. "You're sure you don't want any help?"

"I've got it. You need to get that side better, I don't want you re-injuring it." He wiped at his brow with the back of his hand and flashed another grin at Artie, before getting back to his skirmish with the furnishings.

Artemus Gordon was very puzzled indeed.

The past few days had been spent somewhat idly, with Artie confined to the train on pain of physician's scolding, and Jim sticking close by, even though there was business to attend to in town. 

Normally Jim would be in town daily, supervising security and coordinating transportation plans, especially where Loveless was concerned. He'd also normally be in town nightly, wining and dining one or two or three of the amenable local ladies. But this was the first day Jim had ridden into town, and he'd only been gone a few hours when the clatter of wagon wheels heralded his return. 

Artie had stepped out onto the back of the train to see Jim riding merrily ahead of a delivery wagon that was weighed down by a rolled-up carpet and the ugliest chaise lounge Artie had ever seen in his life.

"What possessed you?"

"It was a bargain!" Jim exclaimed, dismounting and coming over to peer up at Artie, shooting the occasional glance back at the wagon as it slowly trundled closer.

Artie watched the approaching chaise in horror. "A bar-? They should have paid you to take it!" 

Laughing, Jim had turned and helped the wagon driver unload things, and then talked him into waiting around long enough to take their besmirched items back with him.

Jim had then proceeded to ban Artie from any possibility of physical exertion and taken it upon himself to rearrange the entire parlor. 

"There," Jim said with a satisfied sigh. He shoved the chaise over a couple more inches with a nudge of his hip, and then gestured for Artie to sit. "It's all yours."

"I don't want it."

"I know it doesn't look like much, Artie-"

"It looks like a  _ lot _ !"

"-but it's comfortable," Jim finished patiently. He'd had a lot of patience for Artie lately, which was one of the things Artie was puzzled about. Being stuck in a train car together with no other company and no real mission was not normally a recipe for patience. From either of them. "Try it for me. Please."

Artie frowned in confusion, at Jim's soft voice and at his own instinct to melt at it. 

Artie tried the chaise.

He bounced a little, raising his eyebrows, and then slid back and turned, stretching his legs out as he reclined. "Huh."

"See?"

"I do," Artie admitted, "That's mostly the problem. If I couldn't see I wouldn't have to look at it."

Jim grinned at him, leaning over the back of it to give Artie's reclining figure a once-over. "It's a lot less ugly with you on it."

"You say the sweetest things," Artie said, only the slightest bit sarcastically.

"Why don't you rest a bit while I set the rug up."

"Rest?" Artie wriggled around a bit and sunk further into the cushioned softness. "I'm not even tired but I'm liable to fall asleep for good." He closed his eyes and sighed. "This thing is dangerously comfortable."

"Can't sleep on it," Jim said absently. From the clanking noises, he was moving their card table that doubled as a hidden bar. "We won't both fit."

Artie's eyes opened slowly, and he stared at the ceiling, contemplating Jim's words.

Yet another source of puzzlement. 

They hadn't slept apart since the night before they'd been drugged.

Artie had been running tests on the compound in the brandy, but he hadn't yet perfected the distillation process, and he wasn't about to test it on anything alive. His notes were mostly theoretical, with some anecdotal evidence from himself and Jim, but there was nothing to indicate it would cause any sort of permanent change in physiology or behavior.

And yet.

Artie couldn't say if he'd ever felt anything unpartnerly towards his partner before he'd been drugged, but he was definitely feeling strange things now. He'd had the urge to reach out and grab Jim's hand at the breakfast table that morning. And he'd only narrowly averted the instinct to give him a peck on the lips before he left for town.

And he wasn't certain, but judging by Jim's newfound solicitousness and enthusiastic adoption of their new sleeping arrangements, there was a chance Jim was feeling some unusual impulses as well.

Jim's head appeared over the back of the chaise, looking at him questioningly.

"You alright?"

Artie decided to hedge. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can help you with?"

Artie decided to be honest. "I have no idea."

***

Jim was pretty sure Artie was overthinking things. 

He didn't seem… averse to anything Jim did, he just didn't seem to recognize the motives. 

Jim didn't think he could be much more obvious, but sometimes it took a while for Artie to talk himself into something he didn't think he should want.

Jim didn't like to waste time worrying about things, but he also wasn't in any sort of hurry. He'd let Artie come around on his own. 

He was reasonably certain Artie would come around. 

If he wasn't going to, he would have objected a while ago.

Probably.

Jim frowned at himself. 

"Hey Artie?" Jim asked that night. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bed, the one they'd taken to sleeping in because the sunlight didn't hit it and wake them up as early as it did in the other one. Artie was standing in the v of his spread thighs, shirt and bandages off so Jim could see to his side.

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind sleeping with me?"

"Mind?" Artie seemed to contemplate the question hesitantly. "No, not really. Why?"

Jim felt his nose wrinkle. 

He tried again.

"Do you  _ like _ sleeping with me?"

Artie blinked. He blinked quite a bit, took a deep breath, and then shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.

Jim hadn't thought it was that complicated of a question. He tilted his head to the side, watching in puzzlement as Artie struggled to find an answer. 

"I like sleeping with you," Jim offered. "I won't be offended if you don't want to, though." There. Straight and to the point.

Artie cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Jim watched his throat work as he swallowed, and tried not to think about how close the bare skin of his stomach was to Jim's mouth.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Artie said softly.

Jim nodded and looked down, studying Artie's side. He'd probably be more disappointed if Artie hadn't sounded so tragic about it. "Okay." He scooted out a few inches, closer to Artie, and put a hand on his hip, pushing slightly so he had to readjust his stance. "Turn a little, I've still gotta put your goop on. It's healing well."

"You've been a very considerate nursemaid," Artie said. His voice was still soft and a little sad.

Jim ducked his head, dabbing the jelly over angry red scab and tender pink scar tissue. Sometimes Artie was too dramatic for his own good.

They slept in separate beds that night.The dark was lonelier than Jim remembered, and he missed having soft, warm skin to hide his eyes against.

Jim wrapped his arms around a spare pillow, and fell asleep to the sounds of Artie shifting restlessly a few feet away. 

The morning was cold.

Artie got up first. Jim wasn't sure if the sunlight got him, or if it was just regular old insomnia. By the time Jim dressed and wandered into the parlor breakfast was ready and the table was set.

Artie saluted him with coffee and gestured him to the table.

"Looks great," Jim said, sitting down and reaching for the bacon. He could feel Artie's gaze on him as he piled food on his plate. Looking up, he flashed Artie a smile. "Thanks."

Artie returned the smile half-heartedly, the thoughtful frown-line between his eyebrows never quite disappearing.

"Sleep well?" Jim asked, stabbing at his eggs with a fork.

"Mmm," Artie said, sipping his coffee. "Not really." He set his coffee down with a sigh. "I want to head into down today."

Jim raised his eyebrows. 

"I need to speak with Loveless."

"About the drug?"

Artie nodded.

Jim took another bite of eggs and shrugged. "Ok."

"Ok?"

"Your side's doing well. Should be ok if you take it easy. I'll ride with you if you don't mind."

Artie paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. "Why would I mind?"

Jim, who didn't feel like giving voice to the new and creeping fear that he felt entirely different and more for his partner than his partner felt for him, merely shrugged. "Just checking."

They finished breakfast and Jim cleaned up while Artie disappeared into the lab. 

Jim did not appreciate his own sudden impulse to brood, and attempted to take his mind off it by tending the horses.

He was doing well until he got to Artie's mare. She was as calm and sweet as ever, and Jim couldn't help but remember the night he'd stabled her last. He hadn't been able to talk to her with his wrecked throat, he'd had to rely on touch to relax her. His hands had been shaking as he'd brushed her down, trembling with exhaustion and fear and need, and the only thing he'd wanted to do was crawl in bed and bury his face against Artie's warm skin.

Jim closed his eyes and hung his head. He sighed deeply and let his hands stop, pressed against the steady mare. 

"You ok?"

Jim's head shot up, and the mare shifted uneasily. 

Artie stood in the doorway, his riding jacket folded over his forearm and this gun belt slung across his hips. 

"I'm fine."

"Don't look fine."

"I'll be fine."

"Anything wrong?"

Jim hadn't slept well, but he wasn't sure that would be fair to say. He shrugged ruefully. "I'll be fine."

He would be fine.

They set off for town in an uneasy silence. Jim could tell Artie was bothered by the fact that Jim was bothered by something. He could also tell that Artie was bothered by the pain in his side, and the pace Jim set because of it.

"We could walk," Jim suggested, after Artie let an actual pained grunt slip out along with a grimace. Artie looked at him, and Jim shrugged. "It's not much further."

Artie seemed to weigh the options, and then gave in with a sigh. He was leaning forward, bringing his leg up and over the horse, when the shot rang out. 

A tree branch behind Artie exploded, wood chips and splinters raining down, and Jim heard a frustrated exclamation from the woods to the left. Jim and Artie both dismounted, guns drawn and ears perked as they used the horses for cover and backed cautiously into the thicket.

"That sound like a lady to you?"

"It did indeed," Artie answered. He pushed through a scraggly bush and pressed his back to a thick tree trunk, eyes scanning the surrounding woods. "A very familiar lady."

"Oh?" Jim crouched behind a thick shrub, scanning in the other direction. He thought he saw movement across the tracks. A flash of fluttering blue.

"You talked to the sheriff yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"He mention if he ever picked up Antoinette or not?"

Jim raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Come to think of it, I do believe she's still at large. She's never really done anything like this before, though."

"There's a first time for everything," Artie pointed out. He shook his head with a sigh. "I gotta say, I'm awful tired of being shot at."

Jim nodded, giving Artie as sincere a look as he could muster. "I'm tired of you gettin' shot at, too."

***

Artie let his partner handle most of the action, staying back and lobbing smoke bombs when appropriate. It took two smoke bombs and Jim climbing a very tall tree to get the drop on her, but they managed to take her into custody without her getting another shot off with her rifle.

Apparently, her going off script wasn't part of any plan of Loveless's. She was simply very peeved at Artie.

"Me?" Artie watched in confusion as Jim hoisted Antoinette onto his horse. "What'd I do?"

"You threw him across a room!" Antoinette hissed, arranging herself angrily into a modified side-saddle position. "He could have been seriously injured. He could have been killed!"

Artie gaped. "I was drugged and kidnapped and chained to a chair!" He turned to Jim for help, but his partner was clearly struggling to hold in a laugh. Artie turned back to Antoinette, who was still glaring daggers at him. "I was being held hostage by a bonafide evil genius with a documented history of mass murder and a grudge against my partner - how - how in tarnation am I the bad guy here?"

Antoinette spat at the dirt by his boots.

Artie threw up his hands in disbelief and surrender, and Jim slipped past him to take up the reins, chuckling quietly. 

They walked at a sedate pace, Artie in the rear leading Jim's horse, keeping an eye on Antoinette. She kept her chin up and her eyes steadfastly averted from either of them. 

The woods thinned out and the town eventually came into view. Artie had a thought. "You know Jim-"

"Yeah?"

"It occurs to me that strolling into the pokie and depositing one of Loveless's best assets in the cell next door to him might be more to his advantage than ours."

"It occurs to me that you might be right," Jim agreed readily enough. "She needs to be thoroughly searched at the very least."

"I don't suppose any of the deputies are ladies."

"Not that I'm aware of. Maybe I'll stop by and pay the good doctor a visit while you, uh-"

"Pay the  _ bad _ doctor a visit."

Antoinette gave an audible huff.

They diverged at the main road, Jim leading Antoinette farther into town, and Artie breaking off to head towards the building with a guard standing out front.

It took a reassuring amount of arguing and Artie brandishing his identification to make it through the door. The sheriff was sitting at his desk, stroking his mustache as he read a report. He looked up when Artie cleared his throat. "Agent Gordon, how d'you do?"

"Well enough, thank you. I need to have a word with the prisoner, if I may."

The sheriff waved him back, already looking back down at his report. "You may certainly try to get one in edgewise."

Artie took one lingering glance at the sheriff's mustache, shook his head, and then edged past the desk to slip through the doorway beyond it. There was a short hallway, lined on either side with largely empty, blandly-colored cells, and one uncomfortable-looking young deputy seated at the very end of the hallway with a shotgun resting across his thighs. The source of the discomfort was not difficult to discern. Loveless was pacing back and forth, just on the other side of the bars in the last cell on the left, speaking very passionately about something involving magnets.

Artie held up his hands when the deputy tightened his hold on the shotgun. He was still holding his credentials. "At ease. I'm on your side." Artie came closer, letting the young man get a good view. Loveless went quiet, holding onto the bars and peering put curiously. "I'd like to have a little talk with our friend here, if you wouldn't mind. Maybe you could take a break."

The young man inspected Artie's credentials, snuck one lingering look at Loveless, and then nodded. "Yes sir. I'll be right on the other side of the door."

Artie tipped his hat and watched the young man leave, before turning to face Loveless. "Well then. How's your stay been so far?"

"Excruciating."

"Marvelous." Artie grabbed the deputy's chair and dragged it over until it was facing Loveless, sitting down gingerly and leaning to the right slightly, left leg stretched out, doing his best not to aggravate his side.

"I see you're healing slowly," Loveless pointed out with a smirk.

"Had a run in with a fugitive on the way into town," Artie informed him. "It's actually coming along quite nicely."

"Pity. And how is Mr. West? I don't suppose he had any lingering tracheal damage or internal hemorrhaging?"

"Oh he's fine, fine. Fit as a fiddle. Has his voice back and everything. The bruising is a sort of greenish color now. Sets off his eyes."

Loveless slumped disappointedly against the bars. "How irritating."

"Little bit," Artie agreed, removing his hat and settling it over a knee.

"Why are you here, then? If he's so fit? Why couldn't he come?"

"Oh I had some questions about the drug. I wasn't aware you hadn't seen him yet. Guess he must have just… not wanted to see you."

Loveless scowled.

Artie grinned brightly at him. "So, Doctor, about that drug. I know you never got to observe any long term effects, but I was wondering if you ever predicted any."

Loveless cocked his head and seemed to think about the question for a moment. "No permanent behavioral alterations, if that's what you mean. I did predict a rather puritanical guilt response, if a subject ever did make it through the experience alive. The only thing better than watching morally superior ingrates become the animals they truly are would be watching them attempt to come to terms with what they'd done afterwards."

Artie frowned in thought. "So if someone were to find themselves still experiencing the same sort of impulses they gave into while under the influence…"

Loveless leaned into the bars, looking altogether too pleased with Artie's revelation. "The drug temporarily removes any qualms one might have regarding certain behaviors, Mr. Gordon, but does not affect the urges behind them. If, say for instance, a man were to… strangle another man to death with his bare hands while drugged."

Artie resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Any future desire that man might have to hold someone down and," Loveless's eyes glinted in the dim light of the cell, "feel the life draining out of them, well. That isn't the drug's fault. The initial capitulation to such urges may be attributed to my formula, but the predilection for those behaviors is all yours, I assure you."

"Well," Artie said, relief and wonder and a fair amount of disgust chasing themselves in circles in his mind. "That's good to know, I suppose, even given your disturbing example."

Loveless seemed disappointed, before he perked up. "Is this about West?"

Artie frowned. It was, in a way, but he doubted that was what Loveless was getting at. "How so?"

"He did something, didn't he? Once he was fully affected."

Giving into temptation and rolling his eyes, Artie stood and moved the chair back to where the deputy had it, against the wall. "He did plenty while 'fully affected.' You wanna know what he did?"

Loveless, initially excited, began to look suspicious.

"He tucked me into bed, helped the sheriff and his men drag out the bodies of the thugs whose lives you squandered without a thought, and then he took the time to untack, wash, brush, feed, and water my horse. So that's-" Artie jammed his hat on his head and waved a hand around articulately. "That's your beastly James West. What an absolute animal." He turned to leave, taking a few heavy steps down the hallway before he spun to once more face Loveless. "And by the way, that fugitive we ran into on the way into town? Antoinette. Hope she wasn't an important cog in any of your machinations. Have a good day."

***

Jim was leading Antoinette into the sheriff's office when Artie came stomping out of it.

He stopped abruptly and took in a sharp breath, blowing it out again with gusto. He shook his head at Antoinette and gestured sharply with his hands. "I don't know how you put up with him." He gave Jim a wide-eyed, frustrated sort of look and then stalked off without saying anything further. 

Jim watched him long enough to figure out he was headed toward the saloon, and then continued on his way into the sheriff's. 

He didn't feel like dealing with the mad doctor, so once he'd filled the sheriff in and then filled the sheriff's paperwork out, he left Antoinette in the hands of the deputies. His only instructions were to keep her out of any adjoining cells. 

The faint strains of an acapella duet were already threading their way out from behind the door by the time Jim left.

He made his way unhurriedly down the main road, inspecting wares through shop windows and tipping his hat at anyone who greeted him. He paused outside of the barbershop, fingertips running absently over the prickle of his stubble. He moved on, unwilling to answer any questions about the lingering bruising at his throat.

The saloon was pleasantly lively without being crowded or loud, and Jim weaved his way through the tables until he came to Artie's in the corner. "Mind if I join you?"

Artie stilled, his whiskey almost to his lips, and shot Jim a piercing look. "Have I ever minded if you join me?"

Jim smiled, dropping his hat onto the table next to Artie's and himself into a chair. "Not that you've ever said."

Artie continued to watch him, scratching the end of his nose with one finger. "I do something wrong?"

"No," Jim said immediately. He resisted the urge to grab Artie's hand by leaning back in his chair. "You haven't done anything. I'm just-" He tapped his foot nervously, the toe of his boot coming to rest next to Artie's. He didn't move it away. "Second guessing myself."

"You?" Artie took a sip of his whiskey, "That's new."

Jim huffed out a laugh. "You're tellin' me."

Artie didn't ask anymore questions, which left Jim feeling both grateful and a little disappointed. Jim eventually ordered his own drink, and another for Artie, as well as the free lunch for both of them. 

Artie asked after the doctor, and Jim let him know he'd managed not to mention to her that Artie had ridden into town with him. He also told him about the various items Antoinette had had secreted about her person, the majority of which would have no doubt proven useful to Loveless and her during an escape. 

"A petticoat with pockets," Artie said, blowing out a low whistle. "Now there's an idea."

"I'll stick with my jacket and my boots, if you don't mind," Jim felt it prudent to point out. Artie had a look in his eye that made Jim nervous.

"But Jim, just in terms of sheer volume-"

"Ah, Artie, absolutely not."

"Think of all the things you could hide under a bustle!"

"I'd rather not!" Jim exclaimed, hiding his grin behind his whiskey glass.

Artie waved a dismissive hand. "You can't stand in the way of progress, my friend. It's going in my contingency file."

"As long as that's where it stays."

Lunch was a hearty stew and only slightly stale bread, and by the end of it, Jim was ready to get a move on.

"You ready to head back?"

"Not looking forward to the ride, I'll be honest."

"It's only a couple of miles," Jim pointed out, standing and picking up his hat. "Be a nice walk."

Artie sighed and grumbled, standing up as well. "Why'd we stop so far outside of town anyway? It's damned inconvenient."

"It was your idea," Jim reminded him with a smile, handing him his hat. "You wanted to be incognito before we knew it was Loveless we were dealing with."

"Oh yeah." Artie frowned at Jim, straightening his gun belt with a soft hmph. "Why didn't you talk me out of it?"

"Come on, Artie," Jim stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk and settled his hat on his head, squinting into the brightness. "I couldn't even talk you out of a contingency bustle."

Artie put his own hat on, glancing up at down the main road. "We both know that's because I'm the one most likely to wear it."

"Well," Jim thought about it, unable to keep from smiling at the idea. "If the corset fits."

"It doesn't," Artie said immediately. "I've decided. The corset doesn't fit."

Jim grinned and tipped his hat at the woman who just stepped out of the mercantile. She was giving them a wide berth and a somewhat worried look.

They set a leisurely pace on the way back to the train after collecting the horses.

Jim found himself relaxing fully for the first time in days, letting Artie's inane and often hilarious chatter wash over him. He could have this, a great friend and an incredible partner. He didn't need to complicate it with anything else just because he thought it might be nice.

He looked over. Artie was telling a story about a madam and a judge, hands moving almost as fast as his mouth, laughing at his own punchline before he told it. Jim could feel the dopey smile stretched across his own face, and told himself to tone it down. Artie wasn't stupid, he could probably figure Jim out eventually.

They turned a gradual bend, and the train came into view.

"Home sweet home," Artie said with a sigh, looking fondly toward the train. His smile was simple and utterly charming, and Jim was enraptured. 

He fell over.

"Jim!"

"I'm alright!" Jim scrambled back up to his feet, dusting his knees off and calming down his horse. 

"What was that?" Artie was still smiling, a puzzled sort of amusement. He handed Jim his hat back.

"I tripped."

"Over what?" Artie asked, searching the ground.

"Well if I'da seen it I wouldn't've tripped over it," Jim said grumpily, slapping his hat against his thigh. He had a sneaking suspicion it was his own feet he'd tripped over.

Artie snorted, and Jim jammed his hat on his head, a grudging smile twitching the corners of his lips up.

They started back on their way. "You know I've never seen you trip over anything before?"

"You've seen me fall plenty of times."

"True, but that's usually due to you throwing yourself into something head-first."

"I'm a forward thinker," Jim said. 

"I don't think that means what you think it does, friend."

"I can think forward!" Jim protested happily. "I can think side to side." He swayed over and bumped shoulders with Artie. "I can think back."

"Think back to what?"

"Oh anything. The very beginning."

"Of you?"

"Of us."

"Hmm," Artie pantomimed thoughtfulness. "That's still quite a while ago."

"You didn't like me," Jim said fondly. 

"No no, I liked you fine, I just didn't trust you. That's not the same thing."

"You thought I was just a pretty face."

"Not true."

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Now, ya see, before I realized you were pretty, I knew you were plenty of other things."

"Like what?"

"Oh, foolhardy, reckless, stupid, full of yourself, things of that nature."

"You knew all that, hmm?"

"I'm a very knowledgeable man."

"And what do you know now?" 

"Well let's see," Artie said, tapping his chin. "All those other things are still true, of course."

"Oh, of course."

"Man like you doesn't change much."

"That's fair." Jim stopped as they drew up next to the stable car.

Artie grabbed the reins from him and tilted his head, studying Jim. "Well, I suppose I know you snore now."

The nerve! "Now you take that back!"

Artie laughed, "Oh that does it, huh? You're fine with foolhardy and stupid but mention the snoring once-"

"I don't snore!" Jim laughed as he lowered the ramp.

"How would you know, you're asleep!"

Jim rolled his eyes and grabbed the reins back, trudging up the ramp. Artie followed him up, and Jim could practically hear his grin.

***

Artie thought he might have it all figured out.

There was, of course, a big, and, on this occasion, daunting difference between thinking you had it figured out and actually doing anything about it.

Artie waited until that night, until Jim prompted him about cleaning his side, before he worked up the nerve to test his hypothesis.

Artie allowed himself to be herded into the bedroom, and worked on his buttons while Jim readied the water and the rag and the goop, along with the clean bandages. 

Jim was always very careful when it came to this part, and that night was no different. He used a rag and some soapy water to clean the goop up, although he never really got all of it, and he let the sting fade before dabbing it with alcohol, putting the goop back on, and covered it up. 

He inspected it closely, more closely than usual, and glanced up at Artie. "Not too bad. It's a little red, probably from all that ruckus with Antoinette." He looked back at the wound, and Artie was left studying the top of his head. 

"Say, Jim," Artie began hesitantly.

"Yeah Artie?"

Artie winced and jerked a little, as Jim patted it with alcohol-soaked gauze. He grabbed onto Jim's shoulder with one hand. "You, uh, what you said, last night?"

Jim froze. It was a momentary blip before he continued, but Artie had felt the solid muscles in is shoulder tense for a brief second. Jim didn't look up.

"Yeah?"

"About how you liked sleeping with me? Did, uh, has that, uh, changed at all? Since?"

Jim paused again, though his muscles didn't all tense up at once, Artie noted. He scooped some goop out with a fingertip and began to apply it.

"No." Jim said quietly. Artie was uncomfortably reminded of when his throat had been ruined, such was thick quality of his voice for that one word. "Nothing's changed."

"Well," Artie cleared his throat. "Good. Then you won't mind if we bunk together tonight?"

Jim shook his head, leaning more closely to Artie's side and dabbing the goop where he'd already dabbed it.

"For some reason," Artie continued intrepidly. "I just can't get a good night's rest without you, you know, snoring directly into my ear." 

Jim had paused yet again, and was slowly lifting his face, all the better for Artie to tell how unamused it was. 

Artie grinned. "It's the funniest thing."

"Hilarious," Jim deadpanned. 

Artie searched Jim's upturned face, clenching his hand around Jim's shoulder. "Is there…" Jim froze again, and Artie couldn't tell there was apprehension in Jim's eyes or if it was simply a reflection of his own fears. "Jim is there anything, anything else, you might like? From me? With me?"

There was a beat of silence after the question, during which Artie could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

Artie had been caught in more than his fair share of explosions in his life. The closer he was to them, the worse they affected his hearing. If he was right next to one, it left him dazed in a muffled quiet, with nothing but a ringing whine that pierced through the fog.

That was the nearest thing he knew to compare how he felt in the aftermath of Jim's whispered, "Yes."

He thought he might have stumbled, though he was standing still. Jim shifted, was holding onto him, steadying him with hands at his hips. 

Artie saw Jim's lips form the shape of his name.

"Show me?" Artie asked. He brought his hand up, cradling the back of Jim's skull, fingertips pushing through soft, thick hair. "Show me what you-"

Jim surged up. Artie took a halting step back by necessity, though Jim did his best to keep them occupying the same space with his arms clamped around Artie and holding him in place. Artie stroked his hands through Jim's hair and across his shoulders, taking a deep shuddering breath, feeling the warmth of Jim's shaking breaths against his neck.

"Jim," Artie murmured, fingers curling and twisting in the linen of Jim's shirt, bunching the fabric up. He felt a hint of teeth, the merest scrape against the oversensitive skin of his neck, and then the soft pressure of a kiss. He tilted his head, giving Jim more room. One kiss turned into another, and then Jim was trailing damp, sucking kisses down the side of his neck, around to his throat. Jim's hold on Artie loosened and his hands began a slow, firm sweep up Artie's back. Jim's calluses caught and scuffed as they went, sending shivers of sensation out like ripples across Artie's skin. 

Artie tangled his fingers in the back of Jim's hair once more, using his grip as leverage to tug Jim away from his throat. Jim let out a frustrated groan, but his eyes slowly blinked open and met Artie's gaze. His pupils were swollen and black, glittering in the lamplight.

Artie grinned.

Jim's lips met his forcefully, pressing close and hot as he crushed Artie to him. 

Artie bit at Jim's lower lip, tugging at it and tasting it and trying his best not to let his knees buckle when Jim followed suit and licked into his mouth.

"Mmph," Artie said, pulling back and hating it and then rubbing his prickly cheek up next to Jim's to get closer again. "Hey, let's, nngh-"

Jim took the lobe of Artie's ear between his teeth, and Artie could feel the curl of a smile against his jaw.

Artie swallowed and tried again, "Hey, hold- hold on a second let's-"

"Slow down?" Jim asked, breathy and hot and whispered like a secret in Artie's ear.

_ "Lie _ down," Artie clarified, pulling Jim back the slightest bit so he could nip at his lips again.

"Artie, you're a genius," Jim declared breathlessly.

"Yeah, I know," Artie said, giving Jim a little shove. "Get on the bed already."

Jim flopped down on his ass with a grin, and Artie didn't give him a chance to recline, climbing into his lap after the first bounce. 

***

Artie's thighs were warm and thick and strong where they bracketed his. Jim ran his hands over them and then up, sweeping up the expanse of Artie's naked back as they kissed.

It was better than he'd imagined.

Artie's hands were restless, cupping his jaw and then combing through his hair before slipping down to twist in his shirt.

"Mmph," Artie moaned. 

Jim was feeling magnanimous. He let Artie's lips go and kissed up the line of his jaw, giving him room to talk.

"Why are you wearing a shirt?" Artie asked, even as he tugged said shirt out of Jim's pants and rubbed triumphantly at the skin beneath it. "Since when do you wear shirts, hmm?"

Jim chuckled and leaned back, lifting his arms, letting Artie tug it up and over his head without worrying about buttons. Artie flung it behind him somewhere and then pushed at Jim's shoulders.

Jim fell back against the mattress easily. He held on loosely to Artie's hips as Artie leaned over him, and smiled when Artie kissed his nose and his cheeks and his chin before settling back to look at him.

"Hi," Jim said. His thumbs rubbed at Artie's waistband, mapping out the hard ridges of his hips beneath it.

Artie rested his weight on one hand, dipping the mattress by Jim's shoulder, and used the other to trace his fingertips softly down the side of Jim's face to his neck. "Hello," Artie answered eventually. 

"Is there anything  _ you _ wanna do? Anything else? With me?" Jim asked, fairly confident there was but also eager to hear Artie say it.

"Now that you mention it," Artie agreed. He dragged his fingertips down from Jim's neck, over his collarbone, teasing lightly at a nipple, which made Jim's stomach squirm and his skin prickle, and then down further, to rub at the waistband of Jim's pants. "You'd need to take these off, though."

Jim bit back a grin and slipped his fingers under Artie's own waistband where it gapped at his lower back. Sweeping his fingers back and forth across those precious few inches of skin, he cocked his head as though he were thinking about it.

"You sure we need those off?" Jim teased. "I'm not sure why we'd need to take those o-ah, oh-"

Artie had shifted, slightly, worked his knees up higher on the bed and leaned back, grinding his hips down. Jim felt his hands scrabbling, and groaned once he'd gotten a good grip on Artie's ass, holding him steady so he could rock up into him.

"Artie," Jim panted softly, sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine as they rocked together. "You make a good argument."

"Is that what we're doing? Having an argument?" Artie asked with a smile. His voice was deep and dark, and it sent a thrill through Jim, deeper than any physical sensation. "I thought it was more of a heated conversation."

Jim closed his eyes, arching his back and rolling his hips as Artie tucked his face into the curve of Jim's neck, lips and teeth and tongue worrying at the sensitive skin there. 

"Stop, Artie, stop for a second," Jim managed to get out, scratching his fingers up the length of Artie's back and burying his fingers in his soft, thick curls.

"What for?" Artie asked, pausing his attentions and leaning up to make eye contact.

"Pants," Jim said after a beat, getting caught up in the sight of Artie's hooded eyes and the sheen of sweat glinting along the line of his neck. 

"Oh yeah," Artie said with a sweet, crooked grin. He gave one last, deliberate roll of his hips before sitting up on his knees and letting Jim shimmy out from under him.

Jim shucked his pants off as quickly as he could, drawers with them, and then turned to see Artie reclined against the pillows, fly undone and pants worked half-way down his hips.

"I require assistance," Artie declared, tucking his hands behind his head. He blinked prettily and rocked his left hip up as if offering evidence Jim was unaware of. "I'm injured."

Jim huffed out a laugh knelt on the bed, his cock bobbing heavily between his thighs as he made his way up to Artie. He found himself biting his lip as he took in the sight. The shape of Artie's cock was in clear relief, straining at the soft fabric of his drawers, outlined by the vee of his unbuttoned fly. Jim reached out and cupped his hand around it, the heated length of it searing his palm. "Artie," Jim whispered, looking up to see his partner's face had turned more serious. An open sort of neutrality graced his features, and Jim thought maybe Artie was about to give him an easy out if he wanted it. As if he could want anything more than he wanted Artie in that moment. "Lift your hips up, you lazy bum." He squeezed gently, thrilling at the answering twitch it brought him, and then let go to peel Artie's pants and drawers off when he obligingly lifted his hips.

After divesting him of his clothing, Jim sat back on his knees and gave Artie a once-over. His hands were still tucked behind his head, though his posture was less relaxed now that Jim was clearly surveying him. His stomach dipped into a shallow hollow beneath his ribcage with each deep breath he took, and his cock curved up and rested nearly to his navel, pink and full and perfect looking. 

"You gotta stop staring," Artie said with good humor after a few beats of silence.

"I could stare at you all night," Jim said honestly. He dropped to all fours and made his way closer. "I like the thought of you being mine to look at." He leaned over Artie, one arm on either side of his torso. 

"I like the thought of me being yours," Artie agreed, half a smile on his face as he stared up at Jim.

Jim bent down and pressed a kiss to his lips, easy and simple but firm, stamping himself there.

He swung a leg over Artie and settled down in the cradle of his hips as Artie brought his knees up. Jim hummed into Artie's mouth, pleased at the feeling of all that skin pressed against his. Artie's lips parted, an invitation Jim accepted immediately. He deepened the kiss and shifted his hips, a slow downwardly swivel that pressed him closer. His cock snugged up against Artie's, hot, silken skin hidden and crowded between them. They rubbed together with each flex of Jim's spine, each gentle rock of Artie's hips. A sweet, aching pleasure pooled low in Jim's belly.

Artie's hands came up. Fingertips pushed through the hair at the back of Jim's head, wide, warm palms curved around the sides of his neck, and the pads of Artie's thumbs swept back and forth at the tender skin of his throat. Jim could feel the gentle presses, tentative at the sites of mostly-healed bruises, and his eyes fluttered open. He leaned back, shifting his weight to one arm and capturing Artie's fingers, holding them against his neck before Artie could let them fall away. His hips kept their rhythm and his eyes kept Artie's gaze as he held Artie's hands there, cupped around his neck.

"Mine," Artie said softly. Jim couldn't help the smile that word evoked, wouldn't think to try to. 

A calm settled over him, and he let Artie draw him back down, the fingers at his neck gentle but insistent. He set his forehead against Artie's and they breathed together, trading restless kisses and sighs that developed into gasps as their hips worked closer and faster. 

***

Artie squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to hold Jim closer. He slipped his hands down to press his palms to the small of Jim's back, holding him down as he rolled his hips up. Its was blissful, the perfect hot nearness of Jim, the indecent rub of Jim's prick along his own, tucked into the crease of his hip and sending shocks of pleasure through his core with every rock of their hips. Artie was half-afraid of losing himself, of losing his wits. He let the rough, uneven breaths continue to stutter out of him, thinking if he caught up to them he might start babbling and embarrass himself.

Jim grunted and turned his face. He wound up with his forehead pressed against Artie's temple and he bit a kiss into the corner of Artie's lips. Artie let out what might have sounded like a whimper and wrapped a leg around the backs of Jim's thighs, arching up off the mattress.

Jim breathed out an exclamation, wordless and fraught. There was a hand at Artie's cheek, clumsy and insistent, turning his face. Jim sealed their mouths together, and Artie couldn't think of breathing after that, his whole world was Jim fucking into his mouth with his tongue, and Jim's prick rubbing alongside his, and Jim's perfect, lush ass fitting so flawlessly in Artie's hands.

Jim made a noise, an aborted hitch of a whimper, when Artie took hold of his ass. Artie swallowed the noise down greedily and squeezed, rocking up insistently and delighting in Jim's reactions.

Jim broke off the kiss, turning his head to suck in a great, heaving breath and then tucking his eyes down against Artie's neck. "Artie," he whispered, the tremors in his thrusts echoed in his voice.

Artie felt his eyes burn, felt the liquid heat in his bones twist and coil into his belly. He cupped the base of Jim's skull, cradling him close and twisting their hips together, chasing each spark of pleasure as he felt Jim tense and stiffen in his arms. "Yes," he breathed, dragging his cheek against Jim's sweaty hair. "Come on," he encouraged, broken off shards of a whine catching in the back of his own throat as his toes curled and he went rigid under Jim. 

He felt Jim spend against him, streaks of heat spilling between them, slicking his cock as it thrust between their bellies. Jim's breath came in grunted-out little huffs as his hips shuddered down, and Artie focused on that as he fell over the edge. His eyes closed and his mind spun away as he came, nothing but those halting puffs of air bursting against his collarbone keeping him tethered.

They must have stayed that way for quite some time. Artie only surfaced when Jim started to roll off of him. 

"Nn nn," Artie protested, arms tightening automatically.

"Artie," Jim said, any reproach in his voice belied by the way he settled back into Artie's arms immediately. 

Artie scrubbed the ball of a foot up the back of one of Jim's calves. "Lay with me."

"I've gotta get us cleaned up," Jim said. His fingers slid behind Artie's head, nails scratching into the hair at the nape of Artie's neck.

"Mmhm."

"I've gotta redo your goop and bandage you up."

"Nah."

"It's gonna hurt tomorrow," Jim pointed out.

"Nothing hurts," Artie countered.

Jim snorted and rearranged his limbs. Artie allowed it, as Jim merely set his knees into the mattress and pushed up, looking down at Artie with a fond expression. "I want to take care of you."

Artie gave him a look that hopefully conveyed how underhanded he thought Jim's tactics were. Jim snorted and dropped his head down for a kiss. 

"Oh alright," Artie agreed grudgingly, once Jim was finished with him and he got his breath back. He was still reluctant to let Jim go. Some needling fear in the back of his brain kept jabbing at him, telling him that once he let go it was over, that he couldn't have something so good more than once; life never worked like that.

Of course, Jim could be a contrary fellow, whether he knew he was being contrary or not. He cleaned them up with a damp rag, swiping through the mess on Artie's belly with a look that made Artie laugh. He was very careful when wrapping Artie up, touches lingering and head bent as he concentrated on arranging the bandage just so.

When they laid down a little while later it was facing each other. Jim slid a knee between Artie's legs and shuffled down until his chest was pressed against Artie's stomach, ducking his head down so it fit under Artie's chin. Artie tucked an arm around Jim's shoulder and let his fingers pet over the warm skin of Jim's back, absently tracing scars and lines of muscle.

"Hey Jim," Artie said after it had been a while and neither of them had fallen asleep.

"Yeah?"

"We're doing that again, right?"

"I sure hope so," Jim answered gratifyingly quickly. He stretched his back out, lifting his head as he rocked his hips forward almost imperceptibly. "I was gonna wait until morning, give you a chance to recuperate."

"Morning?" Artie asked, tickling his nails gently down the line of Jim's spine. "That's hours away."

"Whole hours?"

Artie felt Jim's thigh push higher between his own, nudging up against certain sensitive parts of his anatomy. "Hours and hours," he breathed, letting his lips drag across Jim's temple.

"Well in  _ that _ case," Jim murmured, and his hips rocked forward much more noticeably.

Artie grinned and rolled, pinning Jim beneath him and kissing him properly.

  
  
  


Later, after Artie had a new appreciation for the calluses on Jim's hands and Jim had a new trail of tender, purpled marks leading down from his hip to the crease of his thigh, they were once again tangled together and settled down for sleep, this time tucked together with Jim's chest against Artie's back.

Artie traced absent designs on the back of the hand that rested against his stomach and listened fondly to the sounds of Jim's soft snores. 

He fell asleep washed in the swells of Jim's breathing, held close and smiling in the dark.


End file.
